


As Years Go By

by Sol1056



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-31
Updated: 2008-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sol1056/pseuds/Sol1056
Summary: A series of vignettes, revolving around conflicts in a relationship. The expectation or hope that two people are fated to be together does not necessarily mean unending bliss.





	1. When We Were Young: Spring, 206

**Author's Note:**

  * For [windsorblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsorblue/gifts), [Raletha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raletha/gifts).



Trowa made sure the newspaper was folded so the headline faced out, and he sat waiting, facing the door of the condo. A half-hour passed while he studied the business articles, brainstormed on his recent cases, and watched the clock. At eight, Quatre came through the door, kicking it shut with a weary expression as he dropped his briefcase. His first action, as always, was to come give Trowa a quick kiss before stripping off his tie and dropping it on the sofa, then turning to sit on the back as he pulled off his shoes, leaving them where they lay.

"Are you going to put those away?" Trowa turned the page in the newspaper, and began reading about the latest developments in the hydroelectric dam outside Sanq's capital city.

Quatre didn't move for a second, then he bent over, picking up his shoes and his tie with a disgruntled expression. He disappeared down the hallway; Trowa entertained his daily fantasy of dirty clothes going into the hamper. He wasn't holding his breath.

A few minutes later Quatre reappeared in old blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt with grease stains from one of Duo's mechanical projects. He collapsed onto the sofa, then craned his neck to give Trowa a tired smile. "Did you eat already?"

"Mm-hmm." Trowa glanced at him sideways, and pointedly returned his attention to the paper. "Heero and I grabbed something when our shift ended."

"You missed lunch again," Quatre guessed.

Trowa shrugged.

"Okay." Quatre sighed deeply, and put a hand on his forehead. "What is it now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have that look."

Trowa considered that carefully. "I do not."

"Yes, you do." Quatre covered his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just say it, and then I can go reheat leftovers with some peace of mind."

"Fine." Trowa held up the newspaper, turned to show the headline: WEI LAYS OFF SIXTY THOUSAND. "What's this about?"

"Oh." Quatre shrugged. "We've got to close two mining satellites."

"And that's the most you can say?" Trowa frowned when Quatre shrugged again, looking away. "That's not just sixty thousand people. That's them, and their families, and all the businesses that exist to support them. A single satellite might exist for your family's business but the population on them is easily in the two hundred thousands--"

"It's a done deal." Quatre came to his feet, waving Trowa's words away. "I'm starving."

"And you're going to be forcing a lot of families into starving, as well." Trowa folded the newspaper back with a snap, and set it on the side table. He could feel Quatre halting in the doorway to the kitchen, but he didn't turn around.

"Trowa," Quatre replied, evenly. "This is business. Yes, I regret that the mining satellite has passed its peak. But the economics of the situation are too simple to ignore, and I'm not a charity."

"You always say it's a family business. Aren't these people your family? They've been working for the Winners for three generations--"

"What do you want from me?" Quatre laughed, softly, but bitterly. "I've been over this with the board a dozen times. Times change. Sacrifices must be made--"

"By them, never by you." Trowa didn't care if he had begun to sound petulant; he'd researched the situation carefully. WEI was cutting its losses well before it had even risked a long glance at the red. Quatre's family had gotten to where it was by taking risks, and now it wouldn't take so much as a single step across the street without thinking fifteen times, twenty studies, and downsizing first.

"You'd better not be suggesting I take a cut in pay," Quatre retorted, a churlish tone in his voice. "I work eighty hour weeks for this company. I deserve every penny."

"I didn't say that. I just think--"

"I don't think you do. Seems to me you always have a lot to say about how I run my business, and I really don't get why you have to backseat drive me on it. When we met, you knew I was a businessman--"

"No, no, I did not." Trowa came to his feet, angry, but still quiet-voiced. "I knew you were a pilot who was willing to move heaven and earth to help those who had no voice."

Quatre opened his mouth, eyes wide, then closed his mouth, looking away. "I'm not fifteen any more. And I'm not just piloting some hulking machine, I'm running a multi-billion-dollar business. You and the rest of the bleeding hearts would want me to--"

"Now I'm a bleeding heart?" Trowa shook his head. "You've met with the board a dozen times? Meet another dozen times. You could build ZERO from scratch with no engineering expertise, why can't you find a way that doesn't involve throwing nearly a quarter of a million people out into the cold?"

"It doesn't work that way," Quatre replied, through gritted teeth. "Stop acting like I'm the bad guy, here. Not every one goes home happy at the end of the day, and I'd think you understand that, _Commander_."

"I don't make a habit of throwing the good guys in prison," Trowa snapped. "There's no comparison."

"You uphold laws that are archaic and convoluted, changing daily based on some political--"

"This isn't about me, damn it," Trowa burst out. "This is about the fact that you're not willing to take a risk and try something--"

"Me? Not take risks?" Quatre's tone became flat, and displeased. "You forget who you're talking to."

"No, I know exactly who I'm talking to," Trowa shot back. "Some washed-up businessman who doesn't mind that his reputation has _Gundam Pilot_ stuck at the end, but who is more interested in clinging to his family's money than trying to find a new solution to old rules. The _pilot_ I fell in love with would never accept that sacrifices must be made for the sake of a pile of cash--"

"The pilot you fell in love with could never have provided the life you've had, not on your government salary!"

"Fuck you and your goddamn money," Trowa shouted, not caring when Quatre flinched. "I didn't fall in love with you when you were rich, but when you had nothing, and if that's all you'd ever had, I would've been--"

"And you call _me_ an idealist?" Quatre asked, incredulously. "What do you think pays the bills? How do you think we afforded--"

"We could do all this with a lot less money. We don't need this money, or this condo, or this view, or this leather sofa or the marble in the foyer or the three extra bedrooms or the--"

"What's the point?" Quatre turned away. "I'm getting something to eat. I'm not having this argument on an empty stomach."

Trowa snorted, and in three strides was across the room, taking his coat from the closet. "We won't have it at all, then, but I'm not going to have my name attached to someone who can toss away so many lives without even trying to come up with--"

"How little faith do you have in me? How can you possibly see them as so valuable, and not see that I've tried my best?"

"Because they don't have a voice, Quatre." Trowa pulled on his jacket with stiff, angry movements. "You have money to buy a city if you want, people will listen to you. Those folks you want to fire, and everyone who counts on them--they don't get a say in your board meetings. Once you stood for people like that." He slammed the closet door shut and picked up his keys. "Now you just screw them over."

"Trowa--"

"I'll be at Wufei's. Don't wait up." Trowa slammed the front door behind him, and took a second to exhale through his nose. Only once he stood at the elevator did he look down at the keys in his hand, and wanted to laugh. He'd picked up the spare keys to Duo's garage and not the keys to his motorcycle.

Didn't it just figure, but then, maybe the ten-block walk to Wufei's would do him some good.


	2. When We Were Young: Spring, 202

When Heero set the coffee mug down before him, Trowa poured in two spoonfuls of sugar, then half the milk. Heero winced, and Trowa waved him away. "I'm not drinking Duo's coffee without something between me and the acidic levels. I'm halfway to a stomach ulcer as it is."

"We're going to the gym later." That was Heero: not really an offer, or a question. Just a flat statement, but Trowa knew what he meant.

"No. I'd probably break the damn punching bag."

He managed a tight smile for Duo, wandering into the apartment's kitchen with some unknown gadget in his hands. Duo nearly walked into the fridge, then squinted at it, then the gadget, before setting the thing on the countertop and digging around in the fridge for an apple. He started to leave, but Heero snagged him by the shirt. When Duo looked surprised, Heero jerked his head toward the little piece of machinery, which Duo picked up, giving Heero a casual shrug. He left, and Heero returned to giving Trowa his full attention.

"See, that's what I mean," Trowa finally said. He stared down into his coffee, nearly white with milk, and still undrinkable. "Quatre leaves his shit everywhere. I'm not a maid service, I tell him. But we have a maid, he says. And she's not your personal slave, I say. It's not just that she shouldn't have to do everything, but that I don't like living in a pigsty." He grimaced. "Why can't he just pick up his stuff and put it away, without fussing about it for ten minutes?" He stirred another teaspoon of sugar into his cup. "I just wish we could be...more like you two. You always get along, and you're always so--" He stared at the coffee Heero had just spit out across the countertop. "Heero?"

"I'm okay." Heero coughed, thumping himself on the chest, and set the mug down with a solid thunk. "What gave you the notion Duo and I always get along?"

"I..." Trowa glanced over to see Duo leaning against the doorjamb; he now had a gadget in each hand, and a screwdriver behind one ear. "I've never seen you argue," he finally replied, uneasy at Duo's amused look and Heero's bewildered stare.

"Oh, we argue." Duo shrugged, and held up the item in his left hand, frowning at it closely.

"We don't argue," Heero retorted, half to Duo, half explaining to Trowa. "I say something, and Duo goes off for twenty minutes. When he runs out of steam, that's it. I'm not sure that's how normal couples argue." He raised the mug, and mopped underneath it, then wiped the bottom. "Like you and Quatre. You can each get in a word edgewise."

"Hey!" Duo rolled his eyes. "I let you get in plenty of words."

Heero grumbled something inaudible, and shook his head at Trowa. "Tell him you like the place clean."

"I do. Every ten minutes." Trowa leaned back, crossing his arms. He couldn't help feeling uncomfortable, with Duo's even stare practically poking holes in the back of his neck. "Then I just feel like I've turned into my sister, nagging him. And he says we have enough room that if he wants a messy study, he can. But we have too much room! It drives me batshit insane, frankly."

"You're used to small trailers." Heero shrugged.

"It's not like I wanted to live in a shoebox," Trowa retorted. "But I didn't exactly think a three-story penthouse was necessary, either. We have a room dedicated to nothing but watching television, which is ridiculous considering there's a television in the bathroom, one in the bedroom, one in the living room, and another in the kitchen! We have three guest rooms which are nothing but guest rooms. The rest of the time they gather dust."

"Maybe you should rent them out," Duo suggested. He yelped suddenly, and disappeared down the hallway, reappearing a minute later, hastily pulling a coat on. "Late to see Hilde." He swatted Heero on the head from behind, and dashed off. A second later the front door slammed, and Heero gave Trowa a glum look.

"He always slams the door, he's always late, and he never kisses me in front of other people." Heero recited the list in a flat tone, and got up to pour himself more coffee. "At least his coffee is somewhat decent."

"Your scientist did something to your tastebuds, then." Trowa shoved his cup away. "My sister makes better coffee."

"I make worse coffee," Heero pointed out.

"Right." Trowa picked up his mug again. "Maybe we should go for couples' counseling, because I've lived with this for two years. I want to be with him, but I'm not sure I want to be married to him. Not if this is what it'll always be like."

"Get a smaller place, with just one guest bedroom. Make him keep his mess behind a door you can close." Heero glanced toward the empty hallway. "That's what I do with Duo, or we'd be knee-deep in unidentifiable things that haven't worked since the colonies were built."

"It's not just that. It's..." Trowa sighed. "He makes so much fucking money! I know it doesn't bother him that I don't, and I know he sets his salary lower than most of his peers anyway, but it's still quadruple what I make. I feel like I'm some kind of damn kept man."

Heero snorted.

"I do! We go to business dinners and those people treat me like I'm just dallying with the Preventers, passing time before..." Trowa stared intently at nothing in particular, remembering the previous weekend with a scowl. "Like I should stop working and become a house-husband."

"You'd have more time to clean up after him," Heero replied.

"I'd have more time to plot his death for not cleaning up," Trowa shot back.


	3. Sweeter Each Season: Summer, 204

Quatre pursed his lips and glanced over the top of the engineering diagrams to Trowa's expression, which seemed to have wavered between stoic—and something tense, even a little nervous, but the wide eyes would narrow as soon as Trowa felt Quatre watching him. Trowa would raise an eyebrow, and go back to doing the crossword puzzle, as if to say,  _I am perfectly at ease, see me relaxing_ , which was rather amusing since Trowa normally exuded that sensation. Certainly he rarely needed to broadcast it so defiantly with every long, slow breath, every firm letter drawn across the puzzle print-out, even the slight line between the brows looked planned, specific, measured. Time for evasive action, Quatre decided.

He set down the journal, stretching dramatically, even playing it up a little just as a subtle way to let Trowa know that two could play at that game. Then he stood, arching his arms over his head as he stretched again, and casually sauntered out of the room. He caught a glimpse of Trowa in the mirror; Trowa was watching him from under his bangs, before he went back to regarding the rest of the living room with a wary expression like he was waiting for the credenza to whip out a knife and leap on him, or for the twenty-second century Kriten coffee table to stand on two legs and mow him down with a concealed AK-15. Quatre was almost tempted to pick up the reproduction Ming vase and lob it from the hallway into the living room just to see Trowa leap into the air like a scalded cat, but then he had a better idea.

Down the hall and into his study, where he retrieved the brown paper sack from the bottom drawer of his desk, and brought out two guns, of the last kind still legal in Bremen. He uncapped the magazines, checked the levels, and stuck one in the back of his jeans as a spare, keeping the other one at the ready. 

He knew half of what had Trowa bothered about the apartment; it had taken him nearly a year of living there to get over it himself: there was no place to sit in the living room, in the den, in the media room, or in the dining room, in which one's back wasn't to a door or a window. The damn apartment was swiss cheese when it came to open doors leading to other rooms, to hallways, to broad windows overlooking the terrace that ran the complete perimeter of the building. On the other hand, it also meant multiple lines of attack, and Quatre used every trick he had, from bare feet across the carpet and long pauses. Trowa's head came up at one point, but Quatre remembered Duo's odd advice about breathing in time, and he tried it, breathing long and slow until he  _felt_  he were in time with Trowa. Eventually Trowa lowered his head and got back to tackling the crossword puzzle. 

That was when Quatre pounced. Technically it wasn't really a pounce, so much as a leap to a standing position while yelling an indistinct  _heeyah_  in a much deeper pitch than he'd had at fifteen--simultaneously soaking Trowa in the back of the head with a stready stream of water. 

To his delight, Trowa really did leap like a scalded cat. 

Newspaper prints went up in the air, and Trowa amazingly twisted in midair, coming down with his knees on the edge of the sofa, hands grasping the back cushion. He opened his mouth, and Quatre grinned, hitting Trowa with a second stream right in the forehead. Trowa's jaw fell open again, but only for a split-second—then he vaulted over the sofa's back and tackled. Quatre twisted, avoiding, angling away just as Trowa hollered in victory and yanked the spare water-gun from the back of Quatre's jeans. Quatre made it to the credenza in time to keep from getting it in the face, but no matter: Trowa got him with a strong jet of water in the ass, instead. The water continued, spraying over the furniture and landing in a gentle patter across Quatre's head and shoulders. 

"Hah," Quatre yelled, from behind the credenza, "I bet you'll still run out of ammunition before me!"

Plastic clattered, and then Trowa distinctly said, "well, fuck." He'd just realized the second magazine had only been a quarter full. 

Quatre laughed to himself, but then heard running footsteps. He came to his feet, prepared to defend, just in time to see Trowa bolting out of the room. The bathroom! Refills! Quatre ran for the bar sink, refilling his own magazine and slamming it home just as Trowa reappeared in the doorway. They got each other squarely, then Quatre slipped on the bar's cork floor, going down on one knee. His shot went wild, across Trowa, across the wall, up over a lovely painting that Quatre had never really liked anyway all that much, water spray strong enough to knock the vase of dried flowers over, and then ending up aimed at the watered-satin side chairs. They'd just be slightly more watered in the future. Quatre didn't have more thought to spare than that, as he couldn't catch himself, falling completely to the floor. Trowa took advantage, pelting him with a full-on spray before landing on him with a pleased smirk.

"I win," Trowa announced, and straddled him, reaching for the gun in Quatre's hand.

"Oh really?" Quatre wriggled underneath him, and got a hand free. With his other hand holding the gun securely, he straightened two fingers and plunged them into Trowa's side, and straight into Trowa's one ticklish spot on his body. Trowa yelped, arms going up to defend as he threw himself backward from the attack. Quatre was on his feet instantly and running for the kitchen. 

The kitchen was deserted; Mary had left some bowls and vegetables out on the cutting boards. She'd probably stepped out to the pantry for something, but then he saw the large empty bowl, and he couldn't help it. Slinging the plastic gun over his shoulder, he filled up the bowl and tiptoed out into the hallway leading to the dining room. No sign or noise of Trowa. Another ten steps. Still nothing. Quatre held the bowl steady, moving so cautiously it didn't even slosh. He would've been screwed but his lucky break came when he caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror over the piano, reflecting across the gallery, across the hallway, and into the dining room. Quatre grinned to himself, hefted the bowl, and lunged around the corner, throwing the bowl out and up, both tossing the contents and using it as a shield.

What he'd not expected was that Trowa was standing on a chair—a bucket's worth of water poured down on Quatre from above. He sputtered, dropping the bowl with a large clatter, and wiped hair from his eyes. Trowa landed before him, graceful despite being soaked from the chest down, and took Quatre's gun.

"I still win!" He looked Quatre over, and grinned again, that completely open, carefree smile so rarely shown. He plucked at Quatre's dripping shirt and murmured in a throatier voice, "hmm, you're all wet...we should get you out of those clothes before you catch a chill."

Quatre was tempted to snort before he realized the positive aspects of such a plan. Grinning just as widely, he stripped off his shirt and let it drop to his feet. "Now, you," he demanded, pulling at Trowa's shirt, which had stuck to Trowa's body in quite a wonderful way. It was almost a pity to tug it off, but Trowa didn't seem to be protesting, in fact he was helping quite nicely, with one hand down Quatre's pants and the other one trying to get the buttons on his cuffs undone so Quatre could get the shirt off his arms. They were well on their way to hopelessly entangled when someone coughed, and quite loudly.

"Uhm." Quatre raised his head, peering over his shoulder to see Mary standing at the other end of the hallway; Eliza hovered behind her, eyes as large as saucers, hands over her mouth. Quatre looked down at the water soaking the hardwood floor, splattered across the hand-printed cold-press wallpaper, soaking a massive dark patch into the hallway carpet. "Whoops?"

Mary sniffed imperiously, and announced, "Eliza, please get the mop for the gentlemen, and at least ten large towels."

"But—" Quatre glanced at Trowa, who had jerked back at the same moment as Quatre, but now had the oddest little smirk on his face. "Wait, you don't mean  _we_  have to—"

"That's correct,  _Mister_  Winner," Mary replied. "Unless you would prefer raw carrots and defrosted tater tots for dinner, in which case I would be more than happy to address this situation instead of my regular duties."

"Tater tots?"

"It's all I can cook," Trowa whispered, a little apologetically. His smile grew when Quatre looked at him askance, before nodding to Mary. Eliza was already gone, scurrying off to find enough towels to mop up all the water they'd sprayed, poured, and splattered. Trowa waited until Mary had returned to the kitchen, before leaning in close to run a finger down Quatre's stomach. "You take the hallway and living room, I'll take the dining room and bar. First one done wins."

"Oh, really?" Quatre repeated, giving Trowa an assessing look. "And just what do I win?"

Trowa just smirked, and accepted the towels from Eliza, who then handed Quatre the mop. He gave it a dubious look, but it was easy enough to operate. Behind him, he could hear Eliza tiptoeing away, back to the kitchen, where soft giggles floated back to him. 

"Hey, Quatre," Trowa called, from the bar. "You make a great impression of a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar."

"Do not," Quatre yelled back.

"Do too. A five-year-old." 

Those were fighting words. Quatre glanced down at the abandoned water-gun, and realized he'd never fired it after filling it up along with the bowl. Grinning to himself, he picked it up, and began Trowa-hunting again. 


	4. When We Were Young: Winter, 201

Quatre smiled at the young sales clerk, and realized he'd left Trowa behind somewhere. He gestured at the young girl to wait, and looked around for his errant partner. Quatre found him studying a small table not far from the store's entrance.

"I like this one," Trowa told him. He lifted up the lid, revealing a mirror and a small tray.

"I think it's an old shaving table." Quatre frowned. "That's hardly suitable for our foyer. I was thinking something more like..." He glanced around, until his gaze fell on a large half-circle, with ornate legs. "That's cool."

Trowa stared for a long moment, as the sales clerk came to stand nearby, with the eager expression of someone waiting to answer any question that might arise. Quatre noted her name tag, and gave her another smile, this one a bit more pained as he waited for Trowa's commentary.

"What else does it do?" Trowa finally asked.

"It doesn't need to do anything but be a table," Quatre replied, patiently. "I just wanted a place to put mail, put our keys, gloves, stuff like..." He winced at Trowa's sharp look. "If we're coming in and going back out again soon, it's okay to just set something aside rather than putting it away."

Trowa snorted and studied the table a bit longer. "I don't like the legs," he finally said.

"What kind of table?" The sales girl gave them both a bright smile; she deflated a bit at Trowa's sulky look, but held on gamely, obviously realizing it was better to focus on Quatre. "That table is a reproduction in the Empire style, but we have Victorian and even Post-modern as well..."

"Post-modern," Trowa stated.

Quatre just sighed. He would've preferred Victorian, actually; he'd always liked the curves. Or Art Deco. Trowa tended towards simply utilitarian, which wasn't really a style so much as a demand that everything had to have at least six purposes for existing, or it just annoyed Trowa that it would take up so much space. Quatre was sometimes surprised Trowa hadn't figured out a way to turn his electric toothbrush into a mini-drill; then again, perhaps he had and Quatre just hadn't noticed because for him, an electric toothbrush was designed, and built, to be an electric toothbrush. Nothing more, nothing less, and sometimes that was fine. Unless you were Trowa.

"How about these?" Amy waved her hand towards a collection of glass-and-steel tables, but two were bentwood. Quatre made a beeline for those, while Trowa walked around the entire collection from a short distance, his frown growing.

"I like this one," Quatre announced. He ran a hand over the curved line of the table's half-oval. The legs seemed to curve down from the edges in a C-shape, meeting at the center before spreading out to form feet. "Is this beech?"

"Birch," Amy replied. "It's a shade whiter than beech."

"There's not even a drawer," Trowa grumbled. "And it's at least four feet across."

Quatre moved away from the table, coming up behind Trowa to say through gritted teeth, "the foyer is sixteen feet by sixteen feet. Anything less than four feet will look lost in the space." Amazingly, Trowa didn't make his customary complaint about the size of the foyer; he continued to stare glumly at the table -- which was just a table, nothing more, nothing less. Eventually, lips pressed firmly together, Trowa nodded once, turned, and left. Quatre had to breathe through his nose before nodding to Amy. "We'll take that one."

"Uhm, are you sure?" She glanced past Quatre, toward the front of the store, worried. "Did you want to think about it, perhaps?"

"No, that won't be necessary." Quatre handed over his card and filled out the delivery information, shaking hands with Amy before leaving the store. Next door was a small coffee shop, and he wasn't surprised to find Trowa sitting at one of the tables on the side, nursing a cup of chai. Quatre slid into the seat opposite Trowa, but shook his head when the waiter started to head in their direction. For a long moment, no one spoke, and Quatre waited.

"It is a pretty wood," Trowa finally said, but he didn't look up. He'd relaxed a fraction, but the sulky edge to his voice remained.

"I think it'll look good."

Trowa nodded, and finished his drink. He set the cup down, and gave Quatre a wry look. "But it's just going to be sitting there."

"It'll be holding stuff. It's not like it's doing absolutely nothing."

"Still."

Quatre took a deep breath, then a second one. "Not everything needs to do twenty things."

"I never said I wanted something that does twenty things. But just one thing? That's such a waste of--"

"We have more space than we know what to do with," Quatre protested. "Why can't we fill it up with beautiful things, even if those things are just a table, and nothing else?"

"Because it's more space for stuff to end up on," Trowa grumbled, barely loud enough for Quatre to catch. "Every horizontal surface..."

"Not this table. Really," Quatre promised. "Just keys and mail."

"We have an office for mail."

"We need a place to put the mail while we're taking off our coats." Quatre couldn't help but think: point for me.

Trowa's lips quirked, just slightly, and his gaze slid away from Quatre to stare out at the passerbys. "I see." He stood up, and jerked his head toward the door. "What's next on the list?"

"We need to find a gift for Hilde's baby shower."

"Right." Trowa smiled, just the barest amount. "I was thinking one of those cribs that you can dismantle and make into a twin bed as the child gets older."

Quatre was tempted to smack himself in the forehead. He should've known, but he decided it was better to give in. If he didn't, Trowa might sneak in some bizarrely-engineered extra toy for the baby, that looked like a beach ball but unfolded to be a vacuum cleaner, a coffee grinder, with extra space for storing camera batteries. After all, he'd won on the table; he could let Trowa have victory on a gift for someone else.


	5. When We Were Young: Spring, 201

Quatre looked through his mail while Trowa toed off his shoes and wandered into the apartment's depths, trying to find the kitchen again. Hopefully the maid and cook wouldn't be there to hustle him out and insist they bring him his drink. He really just wanted a drink, made the way he liked, without any fanfare. He peered around the door, and smiled to himself: the coast was clear. He had to open at least four cabinets before he found the glasses, and none of them were the right kind for a highball, but an orange juice glass might do in a pinch. Then he just needed to remember which cabinet held the liquor...

"Trowa?" Quatre wandered in, looking around with a puzzled expression. "What are you doing in here? Where's Mary?"

"Shh, don't go finding her." Trowa brought out a bottle of some fine whiskey, and changed his mind on the drink. Straight whiskey would do, after the day he'd had. When Quatre came up behind him to wrap his arms around Trowa's waist, Trowa smiled, then pretended to frown at being bumped during the delicate process of flicking water at the whiskey.

But he nearly dropped the glass when Quatre whispered into his ear, "what do you think about moving in together?"

"What?" Trowa blinked a few times, then took a larger sip of the drink than he'd planned. He set it down before answering, "you mean, find a place together?"

"No, I figured here's fine. It's near both our works, and--"

"It's large enough for the entire circus." Trowa tried not to think about living all the time in a place where strangers--Mary, and the maid, what was her name? and the butler--he was still unable to look the man in the eye ever since Wufei had swung by the morning after Trowa had stayed the night, for the first time--and the butler had come up to announce Wufei and... Trowa sighed.

"You're thinking about Montgomery walking in on us," Quatre teased. "I can tell. You're blushing."

"I'm not," Trowa protested, but had to smile. "Fine."

"So you'll move in?"

"I don't--" He craned his neck and caught the barest glimpse of Quatre's crestfallen expression. Turning in Quatre's arms, Trowa kissed him, chastely, then deeper, trying to reassure Quatre, and perhaps himself.

What would he do with himself in a house that had three floors, five bathrooms, a master suite larger than his entire apartment... and his sofa. He and Cathy had searched for three weeks to find a sofa long enough for Trowa's legs. He rather liked the color, too, a pale blue, but he couldn't think of it ever fitting into Quatre's elegant, pristine, decorative world with its curlicues and sweeping arches and elaborate tilework in every room. And the lamp in his dining room, cobalt blue, that Quatre had declared minimalist but for the fact that it was actually colored. He pulled away from the kiss, aware he'd become distracted, and Quatre's puzzled frown showed his lover had noticed, too.

"Trowa, you don't have--"

"It's okay." Trowa nodded firmly, and kissed Quatre again. "We'll figure it out." Maybe he'd give the lamp to Sally; she'd complimented it the last time she'd visited. And Cathy liked the sofa, too. He could help her rearrange her tiny living room, and then he'd also have a place to sleep when he came to visit. He set that aside, and did his best to kiss away the beaming smile on Quatre's face.

Three weeks later, he moved in, arriving while Quatre was at work, taking his lunch break to visit his apartment near the Preventers' main headquarters. Everything was ready; Heero helped him carry the four boxes down to the curb, and took a cab with him to Quatre's. Neither said anything, but Trowa could tell Heero studied him with new eyes as they carried the boxes up to the master suite. Trowa stared at them for a second, and pushed two into the back corner of the closet Quatre had designated his. He straighted up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He'd been doing that for three weeks, staring at himself, as if looking with entirely new eyes. Not at himself, but at the space he occupied: a floral sofa, with curved legs and broad arms, or the tiled hallway at the top of the stairs leading to the master suite, or in the bathroom, a hand on the gilt taps. He felt like an infiltrator.

"You're not happy," Heero observed, from where he stood looking over the rows of ties, visible through Quatre's half-open dressing room door.

"I am." Trowa shrugged, and picked up his coat, checking his sidearm. "Let's get back to work."

Heero turned with a curious expression, but he didn't ask, and Trowa didn't offer.


	6. When We Were Young: Autumn, 203

Quatre wrinkled his nose at the carrot slices in his salad, and carefully picked around them. Only when a hand appeared in his vision, waving under his nose, did he start and look up with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Rel, I'm just not in a very social mood today, I suppose." He did a habitual sweep across the restuarant, but it looked like both the paparazzi and any potential stalkers had decided to at least let Relena get through the first two courses in peace. Quatre gave her another regretful smile. "I'm afraid I was lost in my own thoughts."

"I was mostly arguing to the choir, I expect." Relena shrugged and had another onion ring. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing." Quatre leaned back, and pushed his salad plate away with two fingers. "Preaching at me about what?"

"Yes, you had a very nothing expression for about ten minutes there," Relena observed. Her faux-stern look faded into one of friendly concern. "Really, Quatre. We're friends. I'm here to listen if you need me to." She paused, and her lips quirked into almost a smile, but it was promptly buried under diplomatic training into a completely deadpan expression. "And I promise not to breathe a word of it to Dorothy."

Quatre had to chuckle. "It's not really that important. Just a little...annoyed at Trowa right now."

"What? Trouble in paradise?"

"It's hardly paradise." Quatre couldn't help but snort. "Unless you mean his case resolution record, which continues to be perfect."

"That's not what Heero says."

"Heero's wrong."

Relena's eyebrows went up at Quatre's quick response, but she said nothing.

"Yes, I'm biased. But still, he works such long hours." He shrugged. "I do, too."

"You're a lot alike that way." She dipped another onion ring in the ketchup, then dipped it again, before biting down with a pleased look. She'd sworn they had the best onion rings in Brussels; Quatre had no interest in eating onions, flour, and grease, but she seemed to enjoy them immensely. "Actually, all of us are, now that I think about it." She held up her glass as their waiter passed, and turned back to Quatre with a frown. "So you argued about how many cases he has?"

"No." He sighed, and propped his chin on his fist, giving his closest friend a smile. "It sounds stupid but...we argued about the war."

Relena blinked.

"Well, not precisely. I don't even remember how it came up, now. Just some random comment on my part, teasing him, I think, and I compared something to sleeping with Duo."

Her eyes went impossibly wide, and she froze with the onion ring halfway to her mouth. A large drop of ketchup splatted on the plate, but she didn't notice.

"Err, I didn't mean like that."

She visibly deflated, and bit into her onion ring with a disappointed expression.

"But..." Quatre leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Trowa thought I did."

"Oh." Relena brightened, and he nearly rolled his eyes. "So he's jealous?"

"More like..." He thought for a minute; the sex that night had been wild, and he had no idea his body could bend in some of those ways, but Trowa's certainly could, and... He frowned, and reminded himself he was eating at a very pricey restaurant with the current Vice Minister. "I think jealous does cover it."

"That's good. A little jealousy is always a good thing." She nodded, then frowned. "Within reason. Too much, and I don't know about you, but it makes me want to punch someone." When Quatre didn't respond, she wiped her fingers on her napkin, and pushed away the remains of her appetizer. "That's why I dumped Heero, after all."

"Yeah...wait, what? You said it was mutual!"

"It was. Sort of." Relena's smile became pained. "If someone so much as looked at me funny, Heero was on them like paint on plaster. It was flattering at first, then amusing, and then just annoying, and finally infuriating."

"You dated for two months," he reminded her.

"The process apparently doesn't take that long," she retorted. "After he spent an evening sulking because I had to dance with heads of state and couldn't spend every dance with him, he and I had it out. I ended up throwing his entire overnight bag at him--" She frowned, lost in recollection-- "and I've always wondered why he might think an entire arsenal was necessary when spending the night, and while I have missed that thing he could do with his tongue--"

Quatre winced. "Too much information, dear."

"But--" she raised a finger, eyes crinkled in a half-smile, "I won't put up with being treated like someone's possession." Relena lowered her hand, and all humor was wiped from her voice. "Is that what's going on with you two?"

"No. I don't think so." He shook his head. "No, it's worse. I told him, and then that night we were supposed to hang out with Duo and Hilde." Quatre scowled. "The whole time, Trowa just glared at Duo. Outright. It wasn't obvious to Duo--he did ask me halfway through the movie what was up, but Hilde picked up on it, and I think she had a miserable time. What really gets me is that I know Hilde had a huge crush on Trowa in the year or so after the war, and you don't see me pouting in the corner because of what happened back when we were kids!"

"Kids with big machines," Relena pointed out. "Not really kids."

"We were young," he protested. "And stupid."

"Stupid enough to sleep with someone else's man."

"He wasn't anyone's man!"

"Ah-hah! You did sleep with him!"

"Yes! No!" He threw up his hands. "It was right after Heero self-destructed. I was upset at what had happened, but Duo was worse off, since he'd considered Heero not just a compatriot but almost a friend. We didn't do anything. We just talked about it, and finally slept. Like puppies, for warmth."

"Naked puppies?"

"Would you stop!"

"Just asking."

"If you tell Dorothy, I will paint your car neon green."

Relena pursed her lips. "Escort me to the next gala, and I won't tell Dorothy."

"Hey!" Quatre gaped. "You're not supposed to tell her anyway, or anyone! Friends, damn it."

She pointed a neatly-manicured finger at her chest. "Politician." The finger swiveled to point at Quatre. "Businessman." She smiled. "You know how to deal."

"Great. If Trowa starts glaring at you, too, don't be surprised." He ran fingers through his hair, frustrated. She reached over, taking his hand and pulling it away from his head, squeezing his fingers. "We've been together almost four years. We've been living together for a year. Why is he so upset about something that happened seven years ago?"

"Maybe he's just worried that you might change your mind." Relena sighed. "That's why I couldn't make it work with Heero. I couldn't reassure him every possible minute that I'd always be there for him. I couldn't promise that. And I couldn't promise I would give him everything I have and am, because some things I do want to keep for myself. To him, I might as well have said I didn't love him after all."

"Great," Quatre groaned. "I hate your armchair psychology. Trowa's hard enough to handle without me having to run around behind him and coddle his insecurities."

She looked surprised. "Well, I didn't mean it quite like that--"

"But that's how it feels, sometimes." The dam had broken, and Quatre tried his best to keep his voice low, and not sound too much like he was complaining, but he was, and it felt good to finally tell someone. "Every penny I spend, he watches with this look on his face like he's counting it up in his head, and every time I ask him if he wants to do something, if I don't wait after that night for him to ask, he gets sulky. Like he's keeping some kind of internal scorecard. I asked him to dinner, he asks me, I asked him if he wants to catch a movie, then he has to ask me. And then I had to go and blurt out about Duo, and just one lousy night where we didn't even have sex, it was perfectly harmless, and--"

"You mean innocent." Relena's glance was too sharp, but she didn't look like she was teasing. In fact, she had her politician's face on. "You said harmless."

"Yeah, harmless, I mean, innocent."

"Are you sure nothing happened? Because you look very guilty right now."

"Because now it feels like everyone's treating me like I am!" Quatre shook his head. "This isn't about me, it's about Trowa being convinced I'm going to throw him out any minute, if he doesn't hold his own or some ridiculous shit--"

"Did you tell him that was ridiculous?"

"What? That he's jealous of Duo?"

"No, about holding his own." Relena let go of Quatre's hand, leaning back so the waiters could clear their plates and refill her glass of tea. Only once they had privacy again did she give Quatre an exasperated look. "It's not very wise to tell one's lover that his issues are ridiculous shit, Quatre."

Quatre had to take a second to get over the surprise of Relena using profanity; minorly annoyed at her victorious look, he snapped, "it's hardly wise to get a stick up one's ass about things long gone in the past." He frowned when she didn't lose that smile. "You've been hanging out with Dorothy too long."

Relena picked up her fork, and stabbed at her green beans. "If that were true, I would've kicked you in the head and sent you home to Trowa by now."

"He's on a case."

"Then I'd send you to headquarters. With roses. And kneepads." She smiled sweetly. "Doesn't matter if it happened seven years ago, and I don't think it matters if he's being irrational. If you're willing to put up with it, then don't rouse the sleeping lion, and if you do, be prepared to grovel."

"Kneepads." Quatre sighed. "For the grovelling, I take it."

"Copious amounts."

"He doesn't like roses."

"Insert flower of choice. If he were female, I'd suggest chocolate. Maybe take him a new chess set." She smiled, a bit wickedly. "And then, be sure to let him win at least the next ten or fifteen times, until he's come to his senses and gotten over his fear that you'll ditch him and run off with Duo." She snorted. "Because no matter what Heero thinks, Duo is certainly not much of a catch unless you're in the market for a top pilot with an unnatural amount of hair."

"I admit, I'm not really one for the hair." Quatre couldn't hide the leer. "But the piloting skills...now, those do have their benefits."

"You! You did sleep with him!"

Quatre just smiled in a knowing manner, and made plans to do his grovelling in the bedroom. His knees would thank him for it, he was sure.


	7. Sweeter Each Season: Autumn, 203

Duo couldn't help but slouch down in the booth when he looked across the restaurant to see Quatre and Trowa entering, taking a minute to stamp their boots. Quatre turned, brushing snowflakes from Trowa's hair; Trowa, meanwhile, had glanced across the restaurant, caught Duo's eye, and the normally impassive expression became an outright glare.

"Damn it," Duo muttered, doing his best not to look like he was the least bit annoyed. Next to him, Heero hmm'ed over the menu, then glanced over the edge to see Trowa and Quatre, still at the door. Duo grimaced. "For the record, you owe me _big_ time for putting up with his shit."

"He's my friend." Heero flipped the menu over, studying it rather noisily for such a silent activity.

"He's been nothing but an asshole to me--" Duo snapped, then wrinkled his nose. "Even _more_ of an asshole, that is. Barely even civil. What the hell crawled up--"

"Duo. Shut up."

Duo grunted, unwilling to let the mental thoughts go, even if he closed his mouth. He'd argued enough already with Heero; the only reason he could get away with complaining was because Heero hated to argue in public. Okay, that, and Trowa's immediate reaction upon seeing Duo had just brought all the animosity back to the surface -- which puzzled Duo to some extent, because even though he'd always known Trowa didn't like him for some reason, it had never gotten in the way of them working together. And he'd been able to mostly breeze through the years without having to acknowledge that quiet dislike, and it had never really been an issue. Then, two weeks ago, Trowa began _glaring_ at him.

At first he'd thought he had something on the end of his nose, or his forehead, but Trowa didn't let up, and the next day it was the same stony silence, and the day after that... Trowa had calmed, a little, but he still seemed to be pointedly trying to tell Duo something and being in Trowa-speak, it was making about as much sense as Relena might if she were to walk up and announce she was leaving everything behind to live in a threeway with Noin and Dorothy.

Although, Duo reflected, if he got to _watch_ , at least, he wouldn't mind too much. Heero would have apoplexy, of course. Duo enjoyed momentarily the notion of his boyfriend's eyes bugging out of his head -- mild visual revenge for the complete disregard for his feelings when it came to Trowa and the Nonstop Glower -- then glanced up again to see Trowa staring at him again but not really at him. In fact, Trowa's mouth hung open just a little, eyes wider than Duo had ever seen; Quatre had leaned over to whisper something in Trowa's ear. Whatever it was, it was taking several seconds to say, and hell, was Trowa _blushing_?

"Yo," Duo muttered, elbowing Heero, "what's going on over there? Did Quatre come up with the magic words finally of 'be nice to Duo or I hurt you'?"

"Hardly." Heero twisted sideways in the booth to lean close, his chin brushing Duo's shoulder as his lips came close to Duo's ear; warm breath brushed over Duo's ear and cheek, making him shiver, as Heero hmm'ed again. "I bet I know what he's saying, though."

"Really? You gonna tell me or do I have to threaten you with copious amounts of garlic?" Duo didn't take his eyes off the pair by the door; Trowa's blush had grown to a full crimson state, and Duo didn't want to miss a second of seeing Trowa lose that impenetrable cool.

"I'm not a vampire," Heero pointed out, then chuckled. "You are mine. No one else's." His voice dropped even lower, almost breathy as it hit the bottom of Heero's baritone range. "And when we get home, just to remind you of that, I'm going to fuck you hard and long until you beg me to come, and when I've come in your ass and you're dripping my cum down your legs, I'm gonna flip you over and ram your dick up my ass, and fuck you harder until _you_ come, and you won't ever forget that you're mine, and no one else's."

"Uh." Duo swallowed hard, unable to look at Heero. His ears felt awfully hot, and his dick had jumped to instant attention with that visual. "Do we have to stay for dinner?" He swallowed again, uncomfortably aware his voice had gone up into a bit higher register than he'd intended.

"Yes." Heero's hand landed on Duo's thigh, running up to the juncture of hip and leg, and squeezed lightly.

Duo squeaked.

"Hey, sorry we're late," Quatre announced, stepping out of the way so Trowa could slide into the booth first. Trowa nodded politely to both; his smile to Duo was almost smug, and he settled in close to Quatre with a proprietory air.

Duo blinked, realized Heero's hand was still on an important part of his anatomy, and the last few necessary functions came roaring back to life. _Oh_ , so Trowa had been _jealous_. Duo wondered what in space would make Trowa think that, and made a note that in the future, he'd be a bit more circumspect when hanging out with Quatre. No treading on the lion's tail by flirting with the boyfriend, Duo decided, but he'd figure out the finer details of his best behavior _after_ he'd fucked Heero sixteen ways to Sunday. And then back again.

Pleased, Duo smiled back at Trowa just as smugly.


	8. When We Were Young: Summer, 202

Trowa fingered the letter in his pocket, and whistled under his breath while the elevator climbed steadily toward the thirty-fifth floor. When the doors opened to a soft chime, he stepped into the apartment, nodding to Montgomery as the door was opened. It'd taken him six months to stop flushing when the man tried to greet him in the evening, but he'd finally managed some semblance of cool again. He accepted help shirking off his coat, but grabbed the letter from his jacket pocket, along with his sidearm -- which Montgomery and the rest of the staff refused to touch, let alone even acknowledge -- and took the stairs two at a time, up to Quatre's study.

"Hey," he said, pushing the door open, not surprised to find Quatre staring off into nothing, hands clasped before his mouth, a slight frown creasing his brow. Trowa smiled and came around behind the desk, giving Quatre a quick kiss on the cheek, and sliding his arms down around Quatre's neck to hug him from behind. Quatre smiled and held Trowa's arms in place, leaning back to give him a tired smile.

"Bills," Quatre said. "I have no idea why I insist on doing this myself."

Trowa looked over the papers, and thought of his own bills. Two credit card companies, and the payment on his motorcycle -- a payment that'd been made significantly easier by Une's unexpected benevolence after three successful cases in a row. Not just a third quarter bonus, but a ten percent raise. He felt flushed with pride, and he wanted to take Quatre out to dinner. Really suprise his lover, in ways he didn't usually get to do, and hopefully not in some way that involved guns or machinery. A few more letters were scattered across the desk; they looked like bank statements. There were more papers under those, but Quatre's desk was always covered in papers. Trowa shook his head.

"I can do that." To Quatre's startled laugh, Trowa frowned. "No, really. I know how to balance a check book. And if you're serious about putting our accounts together--"

"I am, I am, but I didn't think you'd--"

"Then I can do the bills." Trowa pulled away, and guided Quatre to his feet, then gently shoved him out from behind the desk. "Go get me a drink, and pick out where you want to have dinner. We're celebrating."

"While normally I would definitely celebrate at the idea of someone else doing the accounting for me," Quatre replied, a bit dryly, "I'm not sure this is something you might consider a cause for celebration. More like, a cause for getting your head examined." He paused in the doorway, loosening the tie he'd still not removed since he'd come home. "Are you sure about this? I know I complain, but it's not really that bad. I'm used to it, after all."

"Checkbook, check," Trowa muttered, pulling up the registry on the system and typing in the algorithm Quatre used for all their shared passwords. He waved Quatre away with a smile, and brought out the letter from Une, smiling at it. He'd never had a raise before; he'd certainly never had a job where he had a title -- Captain -- and for a moment he thought of the Captain who'd raised him, and closed his eyes, hoping the man would've been proud of him. But before his dream carried him away, he opened his eyes, and stared down at the top sheet beneath his hands, and he nearly dropped his own letter in surprise.

There were far too many digits on the wrong side of the decimal point.

Furtively, Trowa folded up his letter, and studied the bank accounting printout. There were seven digits to the left of the decimal, and try as he might, he couldn't help suddenly feeling a bit less excited about the fact that his own income had just gone from five digits...to five digits. He'd never earned in the six digits, and having eight digits in a hacked account during the war to pay for contraband ammunition wasn't quite the same thing as having it all in an account where nothing needed to blow up to have access to the money. He realized his hands were shaking, and he splayed his fingers across the desk, forcing himself to lift his gaze from the printout. Quatre had certainly saved a great deal of money...

Then he saw the second printout, and couldn't help feeling queasy.

Eight digits to the left of the decimal point, and that was Quatre's savings account -- but worse, Trowa realized, skimming the sixteen pages that made up the list of everything Quatre had done in one month. Money moving in through here, and transferred to other accounts, and then interest payments -- and the interest payments then went to -- Trowa repeated the account numbers under his breath, as it dawned on him that not even counting what Quatre had earned in actual salary, in interest alone, in one month, Quatre could've bought the circus three times, paid Trowa's salary nine times, and probably had money to burn on about twenty-nine blue eight-foot sofas.

Very quietly, Trowa laid out the various papers, and picked out the single account that had expenses for the apartment. Six digits' worth of money in that account. He had no idea what the other nine or ten accounts were for, and he wondered why he'd even offered. He wondered, for that matter, just how measly he must seem, to be so excited about a ten-percent raise. Hell, Quatre's cook probably made more money than he did; she certainly cooked a lot better than Trowa did...

He wanted a drink. A very large, stiff, strong drink.

Shaking his head, he came to his feet. He couldn't do this. He'd always known Quatre was wealthy, that had always been obvious, even when Quatre had had nothing he'd still moved like a young man born to affluence, someone who expected people to listen -- and they did. But Trowa had met Quatre when Quatre had seen himself as having nothing, and that had made all the difference in the world, somehow. And seeing just how much Quatre did have, now, made all the difference back again. It certainly explained the knowing smiles, the patronizing looks, from some of Quatre's dinner guests and distant family when Quatre introduced Trowa and explained he was a Preventer. And it definitely explained why some of Quatre's sisters still viewed Trowa with clear suspicion. Trowa had never really given much thought to how much Quatre had, or made, but now he knew at least some small part of it, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd had an inkling all along, and had that ever affected his interest in Quatre? Had that ever played even the smallest part?

And what the hell could he ever offer in return? On fifty-five thousand a year...probably nothing Quatre didn't already have. Sixty times over.

He pushed away from the desk and stood up, taking a moment to breathe through his nose before heading to the door. He'd call Cathy. She'd probably try to deck him again, but he just wanted to talk to someone real, someone who'd understand just how...shaken he felt. Eight digits in one account alone, and that wasn't the total of all the money that had gone in and out of the account, just what was left after a month of moving sums... Trowa nearly shouted when the study door opened under his hand, and he stepped back, narrowly missing getting hit in the face.

"Shit!" Quatre laughed and set down the two drinks on the sideboard, and embraced Trowa. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be standing there. Are you done already?" He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Trowa's, and didn't seem to notice that Trowa still hadn't quite reacted. Quatre shook his head. "You're amazing, but I suppose I should've known. I see numbers all day, by the time bills roll around, I feel zapped..." He trailed off, mouth open a little, before cocking his head. "Trowa? Are you okay?"

"I need..." Trowa reached out, swept up the first drink, and downed it in one quick motion. Without pause, he set it down and took the second drink, doing the same, ignoring Quatre's startled yelp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and backed up, out of Quatre's grasp. "Sorry."

"What? Wait, hold on," Quatre replied, catching Trowa and guiding him to the study's leather loveseat that faced the desk. "Sit. What's going..." He turned, looking across the desk, and regret flashed over his features. When he turned to kneel before Trowa, his expression had calmed, but he looked concerned, and chagrined. "I'm sorry. That was my fault. You shouldn't--"

Trowa caught the meaning before Quatre had finished the words. "What? You didn't want me to see that?" The alcohol was sinking in, and he felt abruptly boneless, but somehow managed to stay upright. "Was I not supposed to see..."

"No, there's just no reason. Those other accounts, they're family accounts. They'd just be confusing..." Quatre exhaled, and settled down on his heels, hands on Trowa's knees. "I guess it's a lot of money."

"A lot." Trowa's laugh sounded more like a bark. "Quatre, you could pay for my entire team's salary for six months with what's in one of those accounts."

"It's not all my money," Quatre snapped. "I manage a lot of that--"

"For the family. Right." Trowa thought of all the times he'd wished to buy something small for Cathy, and hadn't had the money. He felt odd, knowing that if he'd only had the nerve to ask Quatre, he could've bought Cathy anything she wanted, and a pony, too. Or an entire herd. And then he thought of asking Quatre, as if requesting his own allowance, and felt sick that he'd ever see his lover as just a bank machine.

"Trowa?" Quatre's voice was soft, and hesitant. "You don't have to do the bills. I'll do them. Don't worry about it."

"I do my own bills," Trowa retorted, stung and not entirely sure why. He wasn't a delicate girl, or some incompetent who needed someone else to handle his money. He wasn't Duo, for starters, who'd spend every penny on shiny objects if Heero didn't clutch the credit cards with a death grip. Trowa had saved up a lot of money on his own, even if it was...well, it was nothing compared to Quatre. He figured four thousand dollars was probably what Quatre could spend on a good day and consider chump change. He was chump change. He was...

"Hey, hey," came the whisper. "I know that look. Whatever you're thinking, stop that."

"I'm not," Trowa replied, stubbornly, but closed his eyes against Quatre's worried expression. He shifted, and the letter crinkled in his pocket, reminding him. So much for a reason to celebrate. He felt insignificant, in a way he never had before. Eight digits, just for the household account. Or was that the six-digit account, and the seven-digit account was just the savings? Before the war, he'd not even been able to conceive of fifty thousand dollars, let alone in one huge pile; by war's end, he'd held that much cash in his hands two times, maybe three. Trying to think of taking that stack and multiplying it by sixteen made his head hurt...

"You're upset," Quatre whispered. "I didn't realize it would make you--"

"I'm fine. I need air." Trowa stood up suddenly, jerking himself out of Quatre's grip, and headed for the door. "I need to see Cathy. I'll be back later."

Quatre might've said something, but it wasn't loud enough to hear, and not clear enough that Trowa had to stop and ask, stop and acknowledge. He strode down the stairs, past the marble walls, gilt banister under his hands, real wool rug at the top of the landing, hand-painted tiles entwined in ancient Arabic patterns down the next set of stairs, past the floor-to-ceilling antique mirror from France, past a startled Montgomery and out the front door.

He was halfway to Cathy's when he realized somewhere he'd lost the letter of congratulations from Une, and he swore at himself. Why did it seem like everytime he left Quatre's, he managed to either leave something behind, or take the wrong thing with him? Well, damn it. Didn't matter, anyway, because there'd be soup and an overstuffed blue sofa waiting for him, and at least Cathy would understand just how terrified he'd suddenly become that everyone else had been looking at him and seeing him as there only for Quatre's money, and he'd been the only one ignorant, the entire time.

He felt like a fool.


	9. Sweeter Each Season: Summer, 202

Quatre glared when Eliza opened the door to the front parlor; she left a tray with tea and cookies set on the table near the door and slipped away, as quietly as she'd come. He ignored the staff's attempt to cheer him up -- did he look like he was five? -- and instead poured himself another shot of vodka, sloshing a little as he berated himself. What the fuck had he been thinking, just dumping it all on Trowa like that? He'd been so exhausted, yeah, but he was always exhausted after a day of work, and the idea of having someone he could share chores with...because the bills really were a chore, just more of the same of what he dealt with at work. Sometimes he felt like he never got to leave work, except for the time he spent with Trowa, when he could be himself, and not Director Winner, the boss, the man whose yes or no could change people's entire worlds for better or worse, the man in charge, more of the endless battlefield but with money on the line as well as lives--

The front door's soft click as the latch fell open brought Quatre out of his pacing, and he couldn't help but check his back pocket again, for the letter Trowa had left on the study's loveseat. His lover had said he'd wanted to celebrate, and what had Quatre done? Shoved in Trowa's face just how wealthy he was -- how could he forget how sensitive Trowa was to such things? He'd been an idiot, and cursed himself six more times in the three heartbeats between the front door's announcement and the soft footsteps passing the front parlor. Quatre held his breath, not sure whether to say anything, and then came a soft rapping, more a brush of knuckles but it was enough to make the door swing open, revealing Trowa's downcast face... and what the hell was that?

Quatre covered the length of the room in seven strides, taking Trowa's face in his hands. "What happened?" Shit, had Trowa gone and gotten himself roughed up at a bar? Wufei and Heero did that when they had issues, out to pick fights for the sheer thrill of fighting -- at least Heero did, until Duo jerked him out of that habit with a few well-pitched battles. Trowa winced when Quatre prodded gently at the bruise, already darkening to a rich purple. He couldn't help but be a little annoyed, after all his worrying. "Is this where you tell me the other guy looks worse?"

"Actually, no, she looks fine." Trowa calmly removed Quatre's hands, pulling them away from his face with a sigh. "Cathy sends her greetings."

"Cathy did this?" Quatre blinked. She was quick with the knives on stage, certainly, but she had to have a vicious right hook to get Trowa that solidly. "What did you say to her?"

Trowa mumbled something, and looked away with a slight shrug. It seemed to amount to a concession that he'd told her about the evening, and something in there had made Cathy deck him. Quatre wasn't sure whether he agreed with Cathy's response, or wanted to haul ass across town to her apartment to tell her to lay off on abusing his lover. That was his job...and the idea of cracking such a joke was suddenly not quite as amusing.

"I need to apologize," Quatre finally said, refusing to let go of Trowa's hands. "I just...there's never anyone to share things with, some parts...and you're someone I feel like I can. I want to. Everything. I just..." He could feel Trowa's hesitation, in the way Trowa's hands shook against his, and the furtive, ashamed glances Trowa kept giving their clasped hands. Quatre tugged Trowa forward, pulling him into the parlor and closing the door behind them. Leading Trowa to the sofa, he settled Trowa down; when Trowa demurred, looking like he wanted to pull away, Quatre growled and straddled Trowa's lap. "Now you're not going anywhere until we talk."

"It's been a long day," Trowa whispered, chin down. "I just want to go to bed."

"No, I let you walk out of here, but you walked back in, and that means we figure this out. You've always known I have money. I'm sorry if it was a shock, but I'm not entirely certain I get why it was that big of a shock."

"You have a lot of money."

"Yes. I have more money than God, Sanq, and all of L2 put together." Quatre went for blunt. "Wasn't the apartment, the car, the villa in Italy, the home on L4, the private shuttle all a clue?"

Trowa's shoulders slumped. "I'd never really thought about it, in concrete terms. Saw it in black-and-white..."

"I'm still me. I'm still here with you." Quatre tilted his hips, grinding himself against Trowa, and hardened a little at the movement. "I'm not leaving. You can go and come back as many times you want, but I'm here, and I want you to stay here. With me."

"But I--"

"No buts. What are you scared of?"

Trowa's quick glance, nettled, told Quatre he'd hit the mark. But Trowa merely pursed his lips and looked away, eyes settling into that wary, sulky expression Quatre wished he could wipe away permanently. No, not wipe; he'd rather just replace it with one of Trowa's rare, open smiles, and then replace it again, and again.

"I found your letter." Quatre pulled the now-crumpled paper from the back pocket of his slacks, and set it on the seat beside them. "Why didn't you tell me as soon as you got home?"

"I don't know," Trowa murmured. He shifted, probably trying to hint that he didn't want to be pinned down, but Quatre didn't move; he only settled more fimly onto Trowa's lap, and Trowa gasped softly before shutting his lips into a firm line.

"Look at me," Quatre said, at first intently, then softer: "look at me, please." Only once he had Trowa's gaze on him did he lean forward, cupping Trowa's face in his hands. "I make a lot of money. I work hard. I try to have fun when I can. But I will trade all that if that's what it takes to keep you in my life."

"Quatre," Trowa breathed, then frowned, trying to look away. "Don't make empty promises. It's a lot harder to walk away from--"

"I have before. I walked away for love of peace. Why can't I walk away for the love of my life?"

Trowa's frown grew deeper.

"Stop thinking I'm a romantic fool," Quatre chided. When Trowa glanced at him, quickly, then away, Quatre had to chuckle. "And while we're at it, stop thinking that I would ever think you're unimportant for any reason. Knowing I'll see you at the end of the day is what gives my days purpose, Trowa Barton."

"I don't want people thinking..."

Quatre snorted, then, leaning back just a bit to give Trowa a skeptical look. The movement also pushed him square up against Trowa's groin, and he was rewarded with another soft gasp, and fingers tightening on his thighs. "Since when do you give a good god-damn what anyone thinks?"

Trowa opened his mouth, was silent, closed his mouth, and dropped his chin. His only answer was a slight one-shouldered shrug, the merest hint of the gesture.

"Exactly. What do I have to do to prove it to you?" Quatre smiled, and leaned forward again to kiss Trowa, softly, then deeply. One of Trowa's hands slid up Quatre's thigh to settle at the small of his back, fingers scratching lightly through the soft cotton shirt.

"I don't want anyone thinking..." Trowa sighed, kissing Quatre again, before smiling a bit ruefully. "I don't want any of this. I don't need a villa in Italy, or a home on L4, or all these rooms. I just want you. That's all I want."

"Just me?" Quatre tilted Trowa's head back, mindful of the bruise on Trowa's cheek, and mouthed kisses along Trowa's jaw. Was that a soft moan? He nipped, then bit, and Trowa's fingers fluttered against his hips, groan half-caught in Trowa's throat. Around the kisses, Quatre whispered, "I'm told I'm quite a handful, I should warn you, even when I don't have any money."

"I'm sure the former..." Trowa moaned again, and tilted his hips up, sliding down a bit more on the seat, head thrown back. "...Alliance would agree..." His grip tightened on Quatre's hips, pulling them closer together with a sudden yank. "I like your handfuls..."

"It's a package deal." Quatre smiled, pleased he'd coaxed Trowa out of the dark, worried mood, and ran his tongue up Trowa's neck to lick with pointed tongue at the skin just behind Trowa's ear. The body beneath his grew soft and pliant suddenly, while other parts became hard, and Trowa whimpered, a sound only Quatre had ever heard, he was certain, and he never intended to share it, either. "I want you with me, always. What's mine, is yours. We'll share. There is no my-money, your-money, my-sofa, your-sofa, my-car, your-motorcycle..." He paused, grinning as he flicked his tongue back and forth across the shell of Trowa's ear. "Okay, car and motorcycle are negotiable."

"Mmm." Trowa's eyes had closed; his mouth had fallen open, and he writhed slowly, hips coming up to press against Quatre's before sinking away and then rise again. "Car. Cycle. 'Kay..."

"Mine, yours, ours," Quatre murmured, and the words came to his lips before he could stop himself, and he realized he didn't want to. "Marry me." He slid one hand into Trowa's shirt, angling down and across to run a finger around Trowa's nipple.

"Mm, yes," Trowa moaned, arching his back. He turned his head, blindly kissing whatever he could reach, craning his neck to reach Quatre's mouth, pushing his tongue between Quatre's teeth, probing -- and then suddenly he jerked back, completely frozen, eyes wide. "Did you--"

"Propose. And you said yes."

"I did?"

"Just now." Quatre rocked his hips. "So did the rest of you."

"But--"

Quatre sighed, and sat back, dropping his hands to his thighs. "What now?"

"Marriage."

"Yes. That's what it's called when two people stand together in front of a judge and do the whole I-do routine. You do not, however, have to wear--" He broke off, seeing his other favorite smile from Trowa -- well, one of his many favorite smiles, although they all were -- and Quatre gave Trowa a suspicous look. "What?"

"Duo says wedding cake is the anti-viagra," Trowa murmured. He brought up one hand, and undid the top button on Quatre's shirt, then the next button, and then a third; that tiny almost-smirk never left his lips. "I can never resist a chance to prove him wrong..."

"Hunh?" Quatre frowned, not entirely certain whether Trowa had just said yes, no, changed his mind, or was perhaps still tipsy from the two shots, an hour before. "Tro--"

Trowa sat up, pulling Quatre's chest to his lips, and Quatre made a rather embarrassing gurgling sound as a confused protest died and was reborn as a startled moan when Trowa's mouth came down around his nipple, and began sucking hard. God, Trowa always went for his weakest points. He shivered, hips beginning to buck, seeking friction, anything. He wanted to ask Trowa one more time to clarify, but the words kept falling away from him, especially when the top button of his slacks fell open and the room's cool air hit his stomach -- then Trowa's long fingers, digging into his boxers. Only when Trowa raised his head to take a breath could Quatre manage to ask, "so is this a yes or a--"

"It's a yes," Trowa growled. "Yes, I want you to marry me, yes, I was an idiot and I'm sorry, and yes, if you don't fuck me in the next thirty seconds I'm heading back to Cathy's and I won't come back."

"Are you threatening me?"

Trowa looked up at Quatre through those long eyelashes, a quick glimpse of smug green. "Are you going to fuck me or not?"

"I could, and I could make it a regular thing, too."

"Pencil me in." Trowa smirked, and wrapped his fingers around Quatre. "I have the instrument right here."

Quatre snorted. "That's hardly a pencil."

"Why? You running on unleaded--"

Quatre laughed, cut Trowa off with a kiss, and wondered if the tube of lube was still under the sofa's cushions. Hopefully the staff had the presence of mind to leave it where they'd found it, and hopefully Trowa wouldn't put two and two together and realize that Montgomery was probably quite aware of every place in the entire apartment that Quatre had stashed lube, just in case. Trowa slid sideways, bringing Quatre with him and angling his hips up to let Quatre yank his jeans down, and arched his back with an appreciative groan when Quatre wriggled down to press his lips against Trowa's hipbone. Quatre's fingers finally located the lube between the two back cushions, and brought it out, snapping the top open. At the sound, Trowa raised his head, glazed eyes seeming to focus momentarily on the clear bottle in Quatre's hand.

"Where did you hide that?"

"In the sofa." Quatre lowered his head and began to suck. Please don't ask, please don't ask--

"Does Montgomery know?"

Quatre had to laugh.


	10. When We Were Young: Winter, 201

Quatre took a second look at the invitation, frowned, and flipped it over, back again, and gave Trowa a suspicious look. Trowa sat on the other end of the sofa, ankle hooked comfortably over his knee as he read the latest mystery novel from his favorite author; his glasses had slid down his nose and he pushed them up with an absent gesture. Quatre picked up the invitation for Cathy and looked it over. Then he picked up the one for Wufei, and there, clearly printed were the words  _feel free to bring your favorite dish to share_.

Normally he wouldn't have considered potluck, but Relena had insisted it would be a charming way around the problem that any housewarming gifts anyone could afford were ones he and Trowa probably already had. Granted, most of their belongings were still in boxes around the condo--one a quarter the size of Quatre's previous residence, at that. They hadn't been able to locate the box with the kitchen utensils, but he and Mary were determined to find the forks before the party.

He was getting distracted by the aggravation of living with boxes. Quatre jerked himself back to the matter at hand, and considered the invitation carefully before turning on the sofa. He stretched out one leg, and poked Trowa in the thigh, then again when Trowa only mumbled something and turned the page. Frowning, Quatre did it a third time.

  
"I said, what?" Trowa didn't look up.  
  
"The invitations." Quatre held up a handful. "Why are they different?"  
  
"Is this a trick question?" Trowa turned another page.   
  
"Put the book down, for a moment. Please. I understand you don't want your sister bringing soup--" Quatre managed a pained smile, trying for diplomacy-- "but I don't understand why Duo's invitation is also missing the suggestion. It's not like Heero won't mention it to him." After all, Heero and Trowa were cut from the same cloth. They thought SPAM and K-rations, if served by candlelight, made for a suitably romantic evening, which meant naturally--or at least hopefully--Heero would request Duo's assistance. Quatre's inner-Wufei irrepressibly pointed out that it said something about Cathy's soup if neither of those men would eat it except on pain of death.  
  
"He won't."  
  
"Hunh?" Quatre blinked. "Won't what?"  
  
"Heero won't mention it. I told him not to."  
  
"What?" Quatre dropped the invites on the table by the sofa, and placed his other foot on Trowa's thigh, digging in with his toes. All he got for the effort was Trowa's hand, landing on his feet and rubbing gently. Trowa turned the next page in the book, and Quatre considered tossing the book out the window. "Why did you tell Heero to tell Duo not to bring food? You realize this might mean we get Heero's cooking?"  
  
"We won't. He's going to get Relena to cook his dish, in return for helping her choose a motorcycle."  
  
"She's going to--" Quatre's mind caught up with that one. "Relena is buying a  _motorcycle_?"  
  
Trowa nodded; he hadn't looked up once, and he spoke in a bland tone, as if not really paying attention. "Dorothy got a lowrider last month, and apparently Relena's been eyeing the latest Beemers ever since."  
  
"She's..." Quatre digested that, then narrowed his eyes at Trowa, annoyed at the misdirection. "Stop distracting me! Duo's a great cook. He's made half the dishes in the cookbook we got him."  
  
"It's the other half I'm worried about."  
  
"What? Don't be ridiculous. And if you tell me you're certain he's going to poison you, I'll kick you. That one time was completely a mistake. He apologized!"  
  
"He was laughing the whole time, too." Now Trowa sounded distinctly grumpy. His eyes had stopped moving; he wasn't reading. Instead, he was just glaring at the defenseless novel.  
  
"Well, it was rather amusing..." Quatre reflected that no one had expected Trowa to eat the second pie all by himself, but... He frowned, seeing Trowa's glare modulate into a definite sulk. "Oh, come on, it's been four years."   
  
"One word," Trowa said, flatly. " _Haggis_." He closed the book with a snap.  
  
The room was silent for a moment.  
  
Trowa glowered at the fireplace; Quatre blinked at Trowa, baffled.  
  
"Uhm. Haggis," Quatre finally replied. "Okay. So?"  
  
Trowa twitched his head to get his bangs out of his face long enough to fix Quatre with a disgusted look. "Do you realize what's in haggis?"  
  
Quatre considered that. He'd never even heard of it before, and he had to shrug in defeat.  
  
"A sheep gut, for starters."   
  
"You eat pork intestines."  
  
"And liver. There's liver in haggis."  
  
"You eat tripe."  
  
"It's boiled liver and onions, with oatmeal," Trowa recited.  
  
"I've seen you eat SPAM," Quatre challenged. " _plain_."  
  
"Then you put that into a sheep's stomach, sew it up, and boil the stomach and everything in it," Trowa continued, implacable.  
  
"You ate your sister's cooking through the entire war, and for two years afterwards," Quatre shot back.  
  
"And it's boiled for  _five hours_."  
  
Quatre blinked. "Well."  
  
"I rest my case." Trowa opened his book again.  
  
"That does sound rather unappetizing."  
  
Trowa nodded, settled his glasses more firmly on his nose, and went back to reading.  
  
There was no point in squashing the diplomatic response. It was automatic, anyway. "But honestly, how can you know if you hate something, if you've never even tried it?"  
  
Trowa just grunted.  
  
"If he does bring it, and I don't believe that he will..." Quatre poked Trowa in the thigh again. "Then we have a little bit, and if you don't like it, just push it around on the plate."  
  
"I'm not five, Quatre." A muscle flickered in Trowa's jaw.  
  
"You're acting like it. You've always eaten bizarre things. Why not this?"  
  
Trowa mumbled something; when Quatre prodded him, he said, a bit louder, "it has  _oatmeal_  in it."  
  
Quatre shrugged, then caught the gesture as the words sunk in. "You don't like oatmeal?"  
  
Yes, that was definitely a sulk.   
  
"Then you don't have to eat it. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." Quatre groaned to himself for the soothing words even as he knew it to be a bald-faced lie. He didn't even want to picture the dynamics of the evening, if Trowa refused point-blank to eat Duo's offering; it was the same dynamic every time the two knocked heads together. Trowa's skeptical glance was sign he knew the truth as well, and Quatre could only offer a weak smile. Irritated at the entire conversation, Quatre slid down on the sofa, keeping his feet against Trowa's legs and pushing enough to bump Trowa solidly. "One of these days I'm going to figure out why you dislike Duo so much. I mean, the two of you are so much alike!"  
  
"No, we are  _not_." Trowa slammed the book shut. "He's always got to be the center of attention."  
  
Says the former clown and stage-hog who was in at least four different acts nightly at the circus, Quatre noted, but refrained from saying that one out loud. Fighting words, certainly.  
  
"Whatever he's thinking, he never shows it."  
  
Quatre nodded, attempting to look compassionately agreeable with the man Duo had once called the king of poker faces. Maybe later he could call up Wufei, get a sympathetic ear. Maybe he'd go down to the Preventer's range and shoot sixteen rounds. Maybe he'd do it with Wufei -- there was an idea. Wufei would understand.  
  
"He drives too fast."  
  
So far, three for three, Quatre observed.  
  
"He's way too possessive of Heero. Whenever he and I hang out, Duo goes overboard with suspicion."   
  
Like Trowa had never thrown a fit about Quatre 'sleeping' with Duo. With pajamas on. At age fifteen. No, not Trowa. Quatre could feel a hysterical giggle rising up in his throat, and he squashed it with what he considered to be admirable maturity.  
  
"And he seems to think he understands machines, but he's a  _horrible_  mechanic." Trowa opened his book up again, as if that settled  _that_.  
  
Okay, four out of five. "That would definitely rate as a crime against humanity," Quatre replied, as neutrally as possible.   
  
Trowa nodded, firmly, then frowned, giving Quatre a suspicious sideways look.  
  
Quatre smiled, as innocently as possible. "I'm agreeing with you." He got a grunt for his pains, and sighed. "But that's as far as I'm agreeing. If Duo wants to bring haggis, he can, and if you don't want to eat it, you don't have to. And if you so much as ask even  _once_  during the party if you can punch him, it's the  _sofa_. For a week."  
  
Another grunt, and the sulk returned.  
  
"AUGH!" Quatre leapt up from the sofa, arms over his head, startling Trowa. "I'm going to take a shower," he announced, "before I shove all those invitations down your throat, damn it! It's been seven years, and so what if he wanted to punch you during the war, I have it on good authority that _you_  punched  _him_  first!"  
  
Trowa's frown became a touch smug, and he made a point of turning the page in his book, as if settling back into the story, now that the conversation was finished.  
  
Quatre made another disgusted inarticulate cry, and left the living room, shaking his head at Trowa's obstinacy. In the bedroom he tore off his shirt, and sat down to pull off his socks before pausing, gaze falling on the phone. Curious, he opened a line and dialed Heero's number. Two rings, and Heero answered, looking a bit frazzled.  
  
"Winner," Heero said, curtly.   
  
"Is it true Duo's making haggis?" Quatre went straight to the heart of it. Heero never wanted anything less.  
  
"That's what he tells me."  
  
"Are you the one who told him Trowa hates oatmeal?"  
  
"He does?" Heero suddenly looked puzzled. "I thought he hated liver."  
  
"No, he--" Quatre groaned. "Never mind. I see what's going on."  
  
Heero nodded; clearly it was already forgotten. He reached to hang up the phone.  
  
"Wait, one other thing--is Relena really getting a motorcycle?"   
  
"She says so." Heero held up several glossy pamphlets. "We have it narrowed down to these three." He snorted. "She just wants it in blue."  
  
"Women," Quatre said, consolingly.  
  
"Almost as bad as haggis," Heero replied, lips curling just a bit, and then he cut the connection.


	11. When We Were Young: Autumn, 200

"Why, Trowa, you clean up real nice."   
  
The tease was a drawl, and from anyone else, Trowa might've needed just a bare second to remind himself that it wouldn't be good to deck one of Quatre's family. Iria, though, was in her own category. He smiled down at her, then jerked his head towards the nearest chair, where he could sit at eye-level with her rather than lean over, or worse, stare down at her.   
  
"Nice shoes," she added, and laughed.  
  
"You think?" He cast her a sideways smile, and leaned back to stretch out his legs, crossing his legs at the ankles. "I believe I can see my reflection in them."  
  
"At least you're not using them to run around and look up people's skirts." She sipped her champagne, glancing around the ballroom, nodding to a few of her older sisters as they caught her eye.   
  
Trowa waited for all of a half-minute. "I'll bite. Who did that?"  
  
"Who do you think?" Her quick glance in his direction, then off again, was so much like Quatre, it was hard to believe they'd not met until he was fifteen. And her ability to keep a straight face while he sputtered and struggled to keep from spitting expensive champagne all over his lap was just as much a Quatre-trait, too. Perhaps it was a family thing. Iria finally took pity. "Some day you and I shall go for drinks, when I'm in the country and Quatre's busy."  
  
"I'd like that," he said.   
  
"Lovely. Have you ever eaten at--"   
  
"Iria." Sister Number -- either Twenty-Two or Twenty-Three, given she looked about in her forties -- sailed up. Like Quatre and Iria, she had softly curling white-blonde hair, but hers seemed to have gone brassy gold with age. "Did you see Patrick go by here?"  
  
"I don't think so." Iria leaned back, holding her hand out to Trowa, palm up. "Jessimine, have you met Trowa?"  
  
Ah, Trowa realized, Sister Number Nineteen, and she hadn't aged so well. Quick math postulated Jessamine should only be about mid-thirties. But Jessamine just sniffed at him, although at least she looked at him long enough to do that before so patently snubbing him to look for her errant husband. Iria's brows came together, knuckles whitening on the champagne glass. It was for her, Trowa decided, that he had to say something; Iria was trying so hard to be the peacemaker, and make sure that Quatre's first time hosting  _Eid ul-Adha_  went smoothly. Still...  
  
"Patrick," he said, musing. It brought Jessamine's attention back to him, sharply, but she smiled, if a bit distantly. "I'm sorry," he said, with a slight bow of his head. "Your family is quite large, and I'm still trying to get everyone straight in my head. Patrick... he's about your height, with red hair?"  
  
"No." Jessamine's expression didn't change. "He's tall, with dark hair."  
  
"Ah, my mistake. It was your  _third_  husband that had red hair." Trowa nodded, pleased, as though a mystery had been solved. "In that case, I'm sorry, I didn't see a tall man with dark hair go past."   
  
Jessamine just stared at him. He stared right back, lips curled as he sipped the champagne, but he kept his eyes flat and hard. After another minute, she sniffed again, nodded to Iria, and sailed off. He didn't bother to watch her go.  
  
"Trowa," Iria said, scandalized, but delighted.   
  
"Mmm?" Past her, he could see Quatre breaking free of a covey of older women, all sisters by the looks of them, though there might be a few aunts and nieces hiding in the group. At least Quatre was now tall enough that he wasn't likely to be smothered under all of them, though from the looks they sent his back, a few might have been considering trying it, at least. Trowa caught Iria's hand and kissed it, smiling when she pretended to pop him on the forehead to keep him away. "I believe I must rescue someone." He motioned with his glass, vaguely, in Quatre's direction.  
  
"Oh, dear," Iria sighed. "Do, and don't forget we have a lunch date." Her smile appeared, along with a charming dimple. "I'll bring pictures."  
  
"I look forward to it." Trowa polished off his glass and handed it over to a waiter, meeting Quatre halfway. The lines on his lover's face were pronounced, despite the brilliant smile; the evening was clearly starting to wear on him. "Any chance you were catching me for a breather?" Trowa leaned over to whisper in Quatre's ear, under pretense of being heard over the music playing up on the ballroom's platform. "There's a broom closet with our name on it."  
  
"There's a  _bedroom_  with our name on it," Quatre replied, wry. "We're not seventeen. We don't need to--"  
  
"A bedroom?" Trowa started. He'd only just arrived that afternoon, straight off a case, and the hotel had somewhat stiffly informed him that his reservations were for a single room. Not even a suite. He'd used the gym to change and shave, and left his suitcases with the front desk, but in the madness of over two hundred relatives like some bizarre blond-gene experiment, he'd barely seen Quatre, let alone had a chance to mention it. "Does it have a--"  
  
"Loreia," Quatre said, just loudly enough to make it seem like he spoke to be heard, rather than cutting Trowa off. "I'm glad you could make it." He kissed her on both cheeks, then introduced Trowa.   
  
"Pleasure," Trowa said, gravely -- racking his brains. Oh, right, Loreia was two ahead of Iria -- Quatre's parents must have started running out of variants by that time, with the last four daughters all having -ia at the end. That made Loreia... Sister Number Twenty-Seven, he thought. She didn't look much older than Quatre. "You came from the outer ring?"  
  
"Yes, a mad dash," she replied, too busy looking around at her sisters to pay Trowa much attention. Most of her words were for Quatre's benefit, a continuing stream of news about his latest niece and nephew.   
  
A twinset, Trowa thought. He contemplated making a snarky comment about that being a type of women's clothing, but that'd only get him accused of being like Duo. He snagged another glass of champagne instead, and nodded whenever Loreia looked his way, as if he were as intrigued by diapers and children on private shuttles as Quatre was pretending to be. At least Trowa hoped it was pretending. He wasn't sure about children, to be honest. Noisy, hyperactive, and the mere thought of a mini-Duo made Trowa's hair stand on end. Not like the Winner family required any more children. What had Quatre's father intended, to populate an entire colony ring by himself? His self-amusement was interrupted when Quatre put a hand on his elbow, and Trowa returned his attention to the effort of politely greeting yet another sister. It was Sister Number Eleven; she'd been behind him in line at the hotel check-in.  
  
"So you're Trowa Barton," she said, looking him up and down. "No relation, I take it."  
  
He just smiled and shrugged, ignoring the flash of Quatre's frown, before it was smoothed over as Quatre changed the subject. Ambiguous comments were a lot easier to evade, compared to Sister Number Four, who'd expressed disappointment that he couldn't even claim to be a poor relation of the as-wealthy-as-the-Winners Barton family. Not that Sister Number Twenty-Five's reaction was much more enjoyable; she'd lectured Trowa for almost ten minutes on his 'murdering relations' and their determination to stay the top weapons-producing company despite the global arms limitations. When she either missed or ignored his protests, he'd finally just apologized. Satisfied, she'd returned to the buffet, arms linked with Sisters Eighteen and Twenty-Nine.   
  
Another sister joined them, and Quatre bent over to welcome the daughter in tow, all of about five years old. She giggled and whispered to Quatre, who raised her up to his waist and jogged her up and down, then twirled her a little as though dancing. Trowa gave them a smile, then realized Eleven had paused, and the girl's mother was now talking to him. Sister Number... he couldn't remember. They were starting to run together, oiled into one massive Sister Mass by the application of too much champagne after a sixteen-hour trans-space flight.   
  
"Pardon?" He said, bending his head closer, doing his best to appear polite. Quatre might appear to be focused on a pretty thing with bouncing curls, but his gaze was sharp when he'd pivot, foil-pricks along Trowa's skin. It didn't need to be said that Quatre expected him to behave; it was their first hosted holiday, even if Trowa's part in the planning stages had been sketchy, thanks to that Syndicate ring in South America.   
  
"I said, are you participating in the feast?" She smiled, and it looked almost like Quatre's expression when particularly displeased but not about to play his hand. Trowa tensed instinctively, and wished he'd taken Wufei and Heero up on that offer to go get plastered at the Preventer's favorite bar. He wouldn't have to have worn a monkey suit or bowtie, even. Cheap beer was never his thing, but given the present company, he was starting to think he could get into it, if this was his only alternative.  
  
"So I'm told. But that's tomorrow night, correct?"   
  
"Yes, of course," Sister Eleven said.   
  
He racked his brains for her name, then looked over her shoulder to see Quatre mouthing a word at him. Trowa stifled a laugh, and winked at Quatre instead. "Do you have a role in the feast, Coraline?"  
  
She looked startled at the name; if she was like Sister Twenty-One, she probably expected he had no idea who any of them were. "Yes, of course. My daughter is old enough this year to participate. She turned eleven last month."  
  
Loreia said something about her own daughter, and the three turned to watch Quatre gliding out amongst the dancers. The little girl was doing her best to hold a formal dancing position despite being perched on Quatre's hip.   
  
"She and Quatre seem quite taken with each other," Trowa observed.  
  
Loreia sighed. "It's a pity they're related."  
  
He blinked at the implications. "Your daughter is, hmm, five?"  
  
"Four. She'll be five in a few months."   
  
He racked his brains for a suitable conversation topic, that didn't involve potential incest -- let alone with a man who'd made it clear he preferred men over women, let alone with  _Trowa's_  man, damn it. He wasn't certain it really counted as a save when two more sisters joined them; the one he recognized as Sister Thirteen had a spouse in tow.   
  
"Coraline, Loreia," the two women gushed, and much cheek-kissing ensued. Trowa tried for a polite smile-exchange with the man, a solidarity of men amongst too many blonde women, but the man barely noticed him. He looked exhausted and baffled; probably even more overwhelmed than Trowa.   
  
Trowa sipped his champagne, and took a discreet step back, as though allowing them privacy. A few more steps, and he could make an escape. He could see Iria talking to someone on the other side of the ballroom -- someone with dark hair, so not a family member. That's what he needed, to meet more spouses; then he could hang out with the rest of the spouses while Sisters One through Twenty-Eight ran around and gossiped and backstabbed. Technically he wasn't a spouse yet, but five years together had to stand for something, and he could only hope the various spouses might be more welcoming when they weren't pinned to the lapel of yet another Winner sister, aunt, or cousin.   
  
"Mister Barton," the older sister said -- that alone marked her as one of the Five Sisters, the first-borns who were just shy of double Quatre's age. At least that made it easier for him; he only needed to call each of them Miz Winner and that sufficed. "Coraline has been given to understand that you're participating in the feast?"  
  
"Mmm." He kept his expression perfectly bland, seeing Quatre returning to the group, niece in hand.   
  
"Ah," Sister Two said, as though she'd just discovered a delightful secret. "You must be representing the needy! Of course."   
  
"It's part of the tradition," Sister Thirteen said to her spouse, who gave her a tight smile and nodded, eyes crinkled in what might have been concentration, but for the set of his shoulders, hunched and tense. Trowa refused to feel bad for the man.  If he'd had any sense, he would've thrown himself at Iria instead of What's-Her-Face Number Thirteen; the last two kids in the batch seemed to be the only ones worth their salt, in Trowa's rapidly-solidifying opinion.   
  
But Thirteen wasn't done. "It's barbaric, so we've changed a few things, because it's the thought that counts. We don't actually make the host slaughter the cow -- it's just the  _representation_ , you understand -- and then all day tomorrow, the entire thing is roasted. When it's done, our host -- this year, that's our little brother Quatre," she added a laugh, as though she'd known Quatre all her life, "will divide the cow into thirds. One part for the host, one part for relatives, and one part for those in need regardless of race, religion or..." Her voice chilled distinctly on the last word. "Creed."   
  
To his credit, her husband looked disapproving at her tone. She shrugged at him, then turned those large blue eyes on Trowa. "I think it's just wonderful Quatre had someone here to accept that share. Usually we just package it up and send it over to the nearest shelter."   
  
Trowa managed a smile. "I was greatly honored when Quatre asked me to lead the local Preventer's corps in accepting and distributing to the local orphanage on your family's behalf."  
  
There was a half-beat of silence. Thirteen's husband looked startled, then impressed. Thirteen blinked, then frowned. Two and Coraline just stared at him. Loreia's gaze was blank and her brow furrowed, as though still trying to puzzle out the sentence.  
  
Nostrils flaring, Two attempted a save. "Oh, that's right. I believe Iria mentioned you're a Patrol Officer."  
  
He stifled a sigh, knowing that was coming. At least he had little doubt Iria'd said such a thing; she was astute about the sensitivity of titles. He suspected it came from finishing her medical internship three years ahead of her peers, and the grind of being called  _nurse_  despite a name tag that said  _surgeon in charge._    
  
"Oh, my." Thirteen tittered. "We'll have to tell all the younger family members no speeding around the hotel then, now that we have a cop in our midst." She batted her eyelashes at Trowa.   
  
Cathy had warned him that women had a thing for men in uniforms. He made a note of the peculiar look in Thirteen's eye, and resolved to wear his dress uniform not just for the feast role, but for the remainder of the four day event. Eyelash batting might be annoying in some circumstances, but he'd still take it over snide comments.  
  
"Don't you have to have a college degree to be a cop?" Coraline asked Thirteen, in a whisper that wasn't really.  
  
"Except that Trowa is a Special Agent," Quatre cut in, but softened the correction with a smile. He returned his niece to her mother, and came to stand at Trowa's elbow. "The duties and dangers -- and responsibilities -- are far greater."   
  
His tone lost some of its warmth, and Trowa tensed. It'd be hard to say he behaved if he'd inadvertently caused Quatre's protective instincts to coming screaming to the fore. He only had movies and television to go by, but he doubted any but mercenaries would consider 'spilled blood' to be a hallmark of a successful get-together. Then again, Quatre's family  _was_  a bit on the mercenary side... still. He'd promised to at least try and get along.  
  
"Most people get it confused," Trowa replied, with a light shrug. "The specifics can be obscure to the outsider." He leaned back to have another sip of champagne, subtly shifting his jacket just enough to pull it open and let reveal the side-arm in the shoulder holster. When he lowered his head, he knew at least Coraline and Sister Two had been paying close attention; Coraline looked distinctly green.   
  
"You've got-- _that_ \--" Her face was red, and not at all attractive.   
  
When Quatre got angry, Trowa reflected, he got more handsome; clearly the genetics of test-tube babies was limited, because Coraline certainly hadn't inherited her brother's looks. Then again, Trowa admitted, he might be biased, but he did have to admit a bit of respect that she'd even said anything. Most people just got a cowed look and shut up -- until he caught the rest of her words.   
  
"And you brought it  _here_ , you warmong--"  
  
"Coraline," Quatre said, curt, but again with a smile. "It's not an option. Special Agent Barton is an officer of the ESUN, and as such is required to be ready to defend the peace at any time."  
  
"No days off," Trowa added, with a wry smile.   
  
He shared a glance with Quatre, who muttered, "don't get me started."  
  
"Are you hungry?" Trowa turned to Quatre. "I can bring you something from the buffet." He was quite certain his lover had  lived up to his habits and skipped breakfast and lunch, in the swirl of festivity preparations. And with Sister Two's claws sunk into Quatre's arm, the chances of disengaging Quatre long enough to force-feed him looked unlikely. Trowa caught Coraline's sniff, and didn't give a damn for Winner attitude that only servants do fetching and carrying.   
  
"That'd be lovely, please," Quatre said, gaze softening -- then that gorgeous sky-blue went cool again as he turned to his elder sister.   
  
"It was a pleasure meeting you," Trowa told Sister Thirteen, and her husband. He gave a slight nod to the little girl and her mother, then a wider -- if somewhat cold -- smile to Eleven. "It's good to meet the rest of the feast participants."   
  
"Oh, you're doing something, too?" Sister Thirteen asked Coraline. "You didn't tell me, sweetie."  
  
"Yes, Majoria and I," Coraline said.   
  
"They're accepting the share for the family," Trowa told Thirteen's husband, as if continuing the mini-lesson Thirteen had begun. "While the other agents and I are distributing the food to the orphanages, Coraline and her daughter will be presenting the evening's feast for all the relatives." He did his best to mimic -- without being too obvious -- the cultured tones Une could adapt when forced to mingle with the Parliament. "So often people only give to poor strangers, and forget their poor relatives. It's a kindness in this festivities that I only wish were year-round, to extend hospitality to even the meanest."   
  
He glanced over Thirteen's head to see Quatre giving him just a flash of a startled look; then Quatre took in the utter silence around the group. Trowa didn't wait. He just nodded to Coraline -- busy doing her best impression of an angry carp -- and strode off.   
  
He'd fetch something for Quatre, but perhaps he'd have Iria deliver it. It was time he made the effort to seek out the spouses lurking in the corners and along the edges, and introduce himself. He was becoming resigned to always being an outsider, but at least he'd be an outsider with company.


	12. When We Were Young: Autumn, 202

Quatre sent back the first draft with a one-word response: _unacceptable._

The second draft got a slightly longer note: _you've got to be kidding._

The third draft, he didn't bother with creating a file to attach to the first; he simply deleted the entire file and replaced with the words: _stop wasting my time with this bullshit._

Iria called him two days later, saying she'd just landed in Brussels.

He met her at the airport, and she wheeled her way gracefully through the security checkpoint, raising her chin so he could lean over to kiss her on the cheek. It felt strange, once again, to tower over her; when they'd first met, she'd topped him by a head, easily. Outside the airport, his car waited, and he helped her into the backseat, threw folded up her wheelchair and stowed it in the back along with her one piece of luggage. Ensconced in the car beside her, he gave her a slight smile.

"You didn't bring very much," he observed.

"I'm only here for lunch, or lunch and dinner, if need be." Iria laughed. "You haven't guessed by now? I'm here on a mission from Miriam."

Quatre groaned. "It's about the pre-nup."

"Did you give them any idea who'd you be asking?" Iria said it casually, but she glanced sideways a bit more sharply than her soft tone might have warranted.

"No. Not a word." Quatre slunk down in the seat, crossing his arms. "Given I'm living with someone, I guess it wasn't hard for them to figure out."

"So have you actually asked him?"

Quatre shook his head. "I'm working on it."

"How does one 'work on' proposing?" She chuckled, and patted him on the knee. "Don't tell me _you're_ nervous."

He made a face, somewhere between a grimace and a sheepish smile.

"Don't be. Besides, if you can survive getting a decently fair document out of our sisters, proposing will be a piece of cake." She smiled, and leaned against him, comfortably close. "So tell me, what's in this document that has you sending back such messages to Miriam? It sounded like a fair list to me."

Quatre explained; the entire list with its myriad details took him the entire ride to the restaurant, the whole of lunch, and an hour after that over coffee. At the end, Iria was silent for a very long time, stirring her coffee idly as though operating on auto-pilot. Finally she stirred, giving him an odd look; a fine line had appeared between her brows, and a muscle in her jaw flickered much like their father's often had when he was particularly annoyed.

"I say screw the bitches."

 

 

 

Quatre waffled for several days before broaching the subject. Two months since Iria's visit, and he'd not talked his sisters out of the more egregious points. They simply weren't budging. Trowa had agreed to marry him, and he should've been walking on air, or so he thought, but instead he just felt the weight of fifteen pages, printed neatly, sitting in his briefcase waiting to see the light of day, and the fury in Trowa's face. He wasn't looking forward to it, but between business trips for each of them, and a huge case for Trowa, and the mid-year reviews, they'd been mostly two ships passing in the depths of space for all the time they'd really spent together. And now, an entire weekend together, and Trowa was making rumblings about finding a place together, a new place, one they'd make theirs from the beginning. Quatre suspected Cathy had a role in that idea, and that alone may him wary of tackling the issue head-on. Besides, he liked the apartment, even if it was a bit bigger than two men and a staff of three really needed...

"Heero's apartment building has a vacancy up on the top floor," Trowa murmured, barely looking up from the paper. He wasn't reading so much as skimming the headlines; if he'd been deep in an article, he'd be squinting.

Quatre sighed. Where had Trowa left his reading glasses, now? He began looking around, absently replying, "do you really want to live six floors above Duo?"

"Good point." A page turned. "Crossword," Trowa announced, with some satisfaction. He opened the drawer of the side table, rustling through the contents. "Pen, pen..." Quatre had just found Trowa's glasses on the parlor's mantle when he turned to see Trowa digging through his briefcase, left forgotten by the sofa the evening before.

"Wait, don't--" He barely had time to get out before Trowa brought out the stack of papers, setting them on his lap while he fished around the bottom for a working pen. Quatre's words made Trowa give him a puzzled smile...until Trowa looked down at the papers on his lap, and actually paid attention to the words across the top of the page. Quatre clutched the glasses case and waited, tense.

"Quatre..." Trowa remained in the awkward position, bent over his lap, one hand in the briefcase, the other hand clutching the newspaper. "What is this? It has my name on it..."

"It's a pre-nuptial agreement," Quatre answered, weakly. "I was going to show it to you...later..."

"Oh. That's all?" Trowa smiled, finding a pen, and sat back, flipping the pen through his fingers as he squinted at the page. "I wonder why I'm surprised. I suppose it just hadn't occured to me, but it does make..." He paused, squint becoming an outright frown, and he dropped the newspaper to hold the document up and away from him until it was far enough away to be within a range of visual sharpness. For once he didn't even glance at Quatre with that nettled expression, as if waiting for Quatre to snicker at him. Trowa's lips moved, soundlessly, then his mouth fell open. "Quatre," he said, in a low voice.

"Reading glasses?" Quatre held them out, and once Trowa took them -- gaze still fixed on the papers -- Quatre backed away. "I'm going to get a soda. Do you want--"

"Why does it say that I can never fly the corporate jet?" Trowa had put the glasses on, and glanced over the thin metal edges to fix Quatre with a bewildered expression.

"Because it's company property?" Quatre edged away. "I'll be back in a few--"

Trowa snorted, and Quatre fled to the kitchen, where he chatted with Mary while she made him a soda, and a second one for Trowa. It didn't take a great deal to coax her into adding cookies, though he doubted Trowa would even notice. It certainly wouldn't be quite a distraction, unless he shoved the cookies down his--

" _QUATRE_!"

Pants.

"What the _hell_ is this?" Trowa was standing in the middle of the parlor when Quatre returned, knuckles white around the paper; he'd reached page two. "What kind of document _is_ this?"

"I guess you reached the part about your savings account..." Quatre set down the plate of cookies and the sodas. So much for distraction.

"I have every right to do with my money as I damn well please, and if my savings account quadruples in five years because I managed it well, I am _not_ going to just summarily hand over the excess of--" Trowa checked the paper, before continuing in that flatly dangerous voice-- "one hundred thousand credits-- I'm not agreeing to this!"

"I didn't actually expect you to." Quatre sighed, dropping his chin.

"Then what are you doing carrying it around?" Trowa tossed the papers at the briefcase. "I'm not signing it, and that's final."

"Yeah." Quatre held up his left hand, rubbing the inside of the engagement ring Trowa had given him, and then carefully slipped it off his finger. "I can't marry you without a pre-nuptial agreement, Trowa."

"What?"

"It's part of the requirements of my inheritance. My father wanted to make sure the business stayed in the family. That's why it all went to me, instead of my sisters. He had this idea that my sisters' husbands would take over, as though my sisters aren't perfectly capable of making sure that doesn't happen." He stared glumly at the scattered pages across the sofa and the briefcase; a few had slid across the carpet to lie under a nearby table. "They're certainly proving they don't want any risk of you taking over."

"I have no intention of _taking over_." Trowa crossed his arms. "I much prefer the work I do."

"But when we marry, L4 is a commonwealth. That means half of what I have, you have," Quatre began.

"Exactly."

"But that means you'll have a controlling share in Winner Enterprises," Quatre continued, closing his eyes. "And if...we were to divorce, we'd have to either liquidate or buy each other out, or split it, and any of those throws the controlling ownership into question." He didn't need to open his eyes to see that Trowa's expression had darkened quite dangerously; he could feel the chill in the air. "And if anything were to ever happen to me...you'd hold the controlling share. If we never had children--"

" _Children_?"

"Then your sole beneficiary at this time is Cathy, and that means, if she survived both of us, your sister could end up owning WEI." Quatre grimaced. "Not that I see any of that likely to happen, but...it is possible."

"First, I don't go into marriages planning on a divorce, but even if I did, I wouldn't agree that upon divorce I agree to give up _everything_ we bought or were given in the course of the marriage and walk away with only the value of my cash and goods as I had on my wedding day--" Trowa's nostrils flared, and Quatre instinctively took a half-step back, tensing-- "and where the hell do they get off, doing a full credit check on me, and cataloging the items I own?"

Quatre winced. He'd cut that out of every draft, and the board kept putting it back in. _One box of unindentified metallic parts; substance, Gundamian; market value: twenty-five dollars_. That was all that was left of Heavyarms. Its value, Quatre knew, could _never_ be measured in market prices. _Two shoe boxes of pictures and news clippings; substance, paper; market value: null_. He'd been livid at that line, and he'd had a terrible row with Montgomery about letting Miriam's henchmen into their home. Trowa had never asked why Quatre had fired Montgomery...

"They went through my _stuff_ ," Trowa said, all too quietly. "They invaded my _privacy_."

"I'm sorry." It didn't matter that it wasn't Quatre's fault, that he hadn't personally given anyone permission to do that, and it didn't seem like the time to protest his innocence, either. He just had to ride it out, and hope Trowa still wanted to have anything to do with him once he was over his fury.

"I am _not_ going to give them copies of my monthly checking and savings accounts for them to certify whether _they_ approve of how I handle my share of our marital property," Trowa warned. "In fact, right now I'm trying to think of a good reason not to take this entire document and shove it down their collective throats. They can approve _that_ , and I'll do _that_ every month until they back the fuck off."

"They won't." Quatre shoved his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulders slump. "I can't blame you for not wanting any of their stipulations. It probably doesn't matter right now, but I only got them to knock off about twenty of the worst--"

"There was something _worse_ than these?" Trowa's face was a picture of incredulity.

"Well...yeah."

"My god, I don't even believe this shit. I want to marry you, but that shit is ridiculous. What's yours is mine, and what's mine is yours..." He paused, and a flash of pain crossed his face. "And even if I don't have a lot to offer, that doesn't mean I want to be treated like I'm doing this just to get at what you've got."

"I know you're not."

Trowa opened his mouth, then closed it. Slowly he removed his glasses, folding them up and tucking them in the collar of his shirt before looking around at the papers scattered everywhere. He took a deep breath, then turned away. "I'm going to run some errands. I'll be back later..."

"Trowa."

"No." Trowa paused in the doorway, but didn't look back. "Guests at seven, I know. I just need some space. Just need to think."

"Okay." Quatre nodded; still, Trowa remained, one hand on the archway's frame, while Quatre remained by the mantle, staring forlornly at the papers and the waiting cookies and soda. He'd rather hoped they'd spend the afternoon--once Trowa did the entire crossword in pen, of course--going back to bed and getting to make up for two weeks of lost time...fat chance of that happening, now. He realized Trowa still hadn't left, and he couldn't help but try, even if it got ignored. "Try to get back by five...I'll give you a foot rub."

Trowa turned then, looking over his shoulder with a weary smile. "That'd be good."

Then he left, and Quatre bent to pick up the papers, not bothering to sort them into any semblance of order. Hitting the button on the gas fireplace, he threw the papers into the flames. Only once they had burnt to dark embers did he get up, brush off his pants, and go to call Miriam. He had every intention of getting married, but if he had to find a compromise. Trowa might be calm and easy-going in the days of peace, but that didn't mean he wouldn't strike out at any intruders -- and now that Trowa knew the board had been through his belongings, none of those men and women would be safe. Quatre smiled to himself. Maybe he wouldn't warn them, and maybe then they'd see that not all former Gundam pilots were calm, responsible, or rehabilitated into proper working folks -- or, at least, they were, until they had reason to stop being so.

Trowa certainly had reason.


	13. As We Grow Old: Quatre's Days

Quatre rolled over and squinted at the clock. Two-seventeen in the morning; it clicked to eighteen as he watched. He rolled back over again, grabbing Trowa's half of the blankets and carrying with them, but the act held none of its usual comfort of swaddling himself up like a man-sized caterpillar gone into hibernation. Finally he threw back the covers, grabbed his dressing gown, and went in search of something to drink.

Three-forty-nine, and the front door didn't open. Nor were messages waiting for him on his voicemail. No email. Not even smoke signals. Quatre stood on the apartment's veranda, looked out across Brussel's skyline, and sipped his scotch. He could make one drink last nearly thirty minutes, if he worked at it, but watching the cars forty floors below wasn't exactly entrancing entertainment. He'd had no idea the streets could get that quiet, compared to the morning's rush hour. And no lone beam split the dark streets, a motorcycle's headlamp carving through the darkness to let him know Trowa had finished the case and was on his way home to safety.

Four-twenty-one. 

Quatre went back to bed, and woke up to a hangover... and an empty bed. 

 

 

 

Day two was a sullen and distracted affair. He broke down at lunch, and called into the family line. The Contact Agent promised to get back to him with any news. No word for three hours, and Quatre headed into the marketing meeting with a churning feeling in his gut. But his assistant knew to break the meeting if there was word of -- or better yet, from -- Trowa. The meeting came and went, and he returned to his office to find Michael had been away from his desk, and the agent had been redirected to the assistant for one of Quatre's sub-directors. Message dutifully noted, with few details -- unlike Michael's kind of message; the man knew Quatre didn't like vague, and knew to grill as thoroughly, as for as long as, he could get away with. 

Quatre stared at the message, disbelieving its succinctness. "Situation unchanged." 

Eight years at WEI. That day was the sixth time that he'd lost his temper at work. 

There was one benefit to having a large corner office, with thick walls and two or three fine woven carpets spread across the floor: the room felt hushed the rest of the time, but positively a sound booth for anyone feeling the sudden urge to shout in frustration and fury. Michael, to his credit -- and likely trained given he'd been there for times three, four, and five -- waited it out. When Quatre came to a stop facing the huge granite-topped desk, panting hard, he caught sight of Michael standing not far from the door, appearing to brush a fleck of dust off his jacket with a bored expression. It made Quatre feel petty for blaming Michael -- which was probably the purpose behind the otherwise rude gesture.

"Quatre," Michael said, and that, too, was unusual. "I can rearrange your meeting for four-thirty to tomorrow, and--"

"That won't be necessary." Quatre's inflection sounded flat to his own ears. He wondered how it sounded to Michael.

"It may be useful, nonetheless. That team only arrived an hour ago. With the traffic on the Forty-Fifth Street bridge picking up, they won't be in the best shape." It hid in Micheal's words, but years of working with the man had Quatre picking out the meaning easily: and neither are you. "I doubt they'd mind, and you could--"

"I'm not taking the afternoon off," Quatre ground out, and rounded the desk to half-spin and land in his chair. The seat pivoted back in a smooth motion and he sprawled, staring up at the ceiling. "I go home, and I'll--I'll--" He waved a hand. "Never mind."

"His last trip lasted two weeks," Michael reminded him, quietly. Again, so much unsaid: this reaction is overboard.

"That was not this one." Just as much unsaid came back in Quatre's tone; Michael didn't, and never would have, the clearance to know of Trowa's work. Hell, there were some things Trowa'd done in the past few years that he couldn't even tell  _Quatre_. At least he'd checked in, when he could, though his calls came at odd hours, and were always blocked; the times he couldn't check in, the Contact Agent alert the families of any news: earlier end, later return, extended mission. Nothing too specific, just enough that families could plan -- or cancel -- around what was often the unexpected. 

The final call, of course, was always from Trowa, telling Quatre he was on his way home. That wasn't just Trowa's policy, that was Preventers' policy. The stress was bad enough, for families; there was nothing to gain from denying agents the chance to tell their families, themselves, that the mission was complete. 

It was just the waiting part that killed Quatre, every single time. Five days before, Trowa had left, promising he'd call in when he could; he'd been ambiguous about the destination and purpose, but that didn't necessarily indicate a security level. Early on in Trowa's career, they'd learned it was easier to leave out most details; that meant the truly dangerous missions didn't stand out for being large blanks. But five days, and not a word, and the Contact Agent's sole message amounts to  _situation unchanged_  -- from what? What was the point of telling someone, "the weather's the same," if you bloody well didn't know what the weather had been in the first place? Quatre had to stifle the sudden urge to run a global 'net search for all unnatural disasters and terrorist attacks. 

"Sir?"

Quatre shook his head, and swiveled the chair to stare out at the blue sky. "Contact the visiting team. If they're truly that exhausted, tell them we can reschedule for a seven a.m. meeting, but that's their only option. The ten o'clock was hell to get organized, and I'm not moving it." 

"Yes, sir." Michael paused at the door. "Shall I call the Contact Agent again, for you?"

"No." Quatre tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. If the team wanted to go ahead and meet, he'd have only a half-hour to get himself out of Worried Husband Mode and back into Hardass Director Mode. "It'll do." Just before the door swished fully shut, he murmured, "thanks, Michael."

"Sure thing, boss," Michael whispered, and pulled the door closed.

A long deep breath, and Quatre rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Most of the time, three or four days of radio silence didn't bother him, too much. He was busy enough in his daily work that once or twice, despite a warning coming-home call, he'd gone right back into work and forgotten it completely -- only to feel rather guilty six or nine hours later to find himself buried in a book or movie and interrupted by Trowa stumbling through the door, unshaven and exhausted. At least he'd had the self-control to bite back on the instinctive "what? you're home already?" reaction. Hardly what anyone would want to hear right through the door.

His fingers itched to pick up the phone and call Relena, but he'd sworn to himself a long time ago that he'd never put her in that position. It was questionable enough, in the eyes of many, that the two had retained their friendship for so long. The consumate businessman, and the lifelong politician; the last thing either needed was even a whisper that Quatre had asked her to bend ears and get him word of his wayward husband. No, not wayward, just... dedicated. Driven. Purposeful. Skilled. Deadly.

And... if -- Quatre didn't want to say the word, even think it, so in his head, he scratched out the unvoiced word and replaced it with  _hurt_  -- anything were to happen, for too many of the missions, Quatre would never know the specifics. Could never know. Hell, Relena probably wouldn't even know. Une might, and Noin. Neither woman would ever tell him, no more than they'd tell anyone else. 

He'd get a personal visit, of course, in dress uniform, with the regretful news: accidents happen. It would never be 'in the line of fire' let alone a designation of friendly or unfriendly. There would never be enough to identify where, or when, or how. And, too, it was a good chance that the only body coming home to him wouldn't even be in a body bag. They'd deliver him an urn, already cremated: if injuries or cause of death raised questions, that could be as good as blaring out all the details with a bullhorn.

The phone rang. Quatre didn't even look, just fumbled for it with a hand.

"Sir, I have Agent Chang on line two for you." Michael paused. "Also, the team will meet with you at 7, tomorrow morning. I'm ordering breakfast."

"Thanks. Okay." Quatre frowned, then, abruptly nervous that Michael might have forgotten the standing instructions and used Wufei's name or title on the phone line. Before he could ask, the call was patched over. "Hello?"

"Hello." Wufei sounded drained, voice slurred. "Checking in."

"You alright?"

Wufei snorted.

"I'll rephrase. Are you in one piece?"

"Passably so." 

Quatre rolled his eyes. Wufei could be bleeding out his eyes and have one leg falling off, and he'd insist it was nothing. At least Heero wouldn't insist it was nothing; Heero would state flatly every injury, and then look at you like you'd grown two heads if you so much as implied that this was reason for him to sit down, maybe get something to patch that big gaping hole in his chest. Sometimes Quatre wondered how Duo put up with it -- oh, right, Duo put up with it because more often than not, it was  _his_  team coming out as Heero's went in. 

"Stop worrying."

The defensive reaction was automatic. "I'm not." He even tried for a little bit of smile in his voice. "But it's still good to hear you're alive."

"Yes, well." The semi-coherent grunt could have been disbelief in the truth of Quatre's good cheer; it could have been subtle disagreement as to the team's status as alive. Another long pause, and Wufei added, "Not everyone's clear. We rendez-vous in four days."

Which could only mean Trowa's team remained. The most Quatre had ever gathered, Trowa's team was either first in, or last out; it was common knowledge that the Preventers allowed no team to do both on the same mission. So he must be doing clean-up -- escorting the prisoners, or ferrying the smuggled goods to a destruction depot, or just taking a more roundabout departure pattern with his team to throw any trackers off the earlier departures. Quatre's extensive reading, personal experience, and just plain imagination could come up with a lot of scenarios. But all of them -- with a great deal of steadfast energy put into it -- ended with Trowa returning home safe and sound.

Quatre checked the phone's readout, out of habit. "Two-twenty," he reminded Wufei. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Of course." Wufei hung up without further word.

 

 

 

Late that night, Quatre lay across the bed on his side, staring at Trowa's side of the room. Years before, after Trowa moved in with him, Quatre had returned from a business trip to find Trowa sleeping on Quatre's side of the bed. He'd tried it in return when Trowa was away, to see if he could sleep better, and he did. Strange, how those things worked. It was nothing so romantic as inhaling Trowa's scent; as an agent often doing infiltration, Trowa's shampoo, soap, and detergent were all neutral, non-remarkable brands with little to no distinctive smell, and he never wore cologne. The man himself barely had a natural scent except the temporary accumulation from a day in the garage or at the range: motor oil, solvent, cordite, gun oil. No, it was the simpler act of being in Trowa's space, keeping it warm for him. 

Two more nights, and Quatre stopped sleeping. He lay awake, staring at the windows, willing Trowa to come home in one piece, come home sane, come home healthy, come home. 

Just come home.

 

 

 

The first few missions that required Trowa say nothing, Quatre had begun noting discrepancies, catching the tiniest of overheard comments, paying attention to subtle remarks and gestures, and put a few things together. He knew from his own experience with technologies that not all call-tracing systems were equal; Preventers' system probably rivaled the Winner internal tracing system, though WEI had only ever used it -- or so his sister in charge of security insisted -- to prevent and apprehend corporate thieves. Still, those top-of-the-line systems still required at least fifty seconds to track down a source, assuming the destination was known. Double the time if the call was intercepted via short-wave, like a cell phone. Quatre had naturally researched the technology further, justifying it as part of his need to be assured of his lover's safety and therefore of no importance to mention to Trowa directly. The smaller the country, the less resources, the more likely the available technology would require a full minute, two minutes, three minutes. 

So Wufei disconnecting shy of three minutes meant he was in a location where the opposing forces were either a less-developed country or less-powerful syndicate. The only other allowance for more than two minutes would be when caller and callee were both in deserted or rural areas, with little risk of nearby ears. Quatre knew his internal lines at WEI qualified, at least to the extent that they were as unimpeachable -- if not more so -- than the secure Preventer lines. While he refused on principle to hit the 'net for global or colonial hotspots, at least he could narrow the field down to the third-world areas, most likely. Then again, those areas were the kind most prone to sudden, extreme violence and upheaval.

Sometimes, a little bit of knowledge, he knew, was dangerous. But he hurt no others with this closely-held awareness, only himself. 

 

 

 

Three nights passed, two days. He said nothing when Michael surreptitiously rearranged his entire schedule, leaving Quatre with nothing more strenuous than staying in his office all day and catching up on the emails that piled up on a regular basis. He'd nod off over his keyboard, then jerk himself awake, back from the brink of a nightmare in which Wufei and Duo presented him with a little metal box labeled "No Name Known." 

Always the same nightmare, pushing Quatre to the edge of screaming: but I  _did_  know him, and I had my  _own_  name for him, and this is  _not_  him. 

If he had to come bolt upright in half-terror from the image and half-relief at escaping into awakeness, at least he didn't have to do it where anyone else could see. 

 

 

 

Nine days since Trowa had walked out the door, beat-up duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Same as every time, Quatre woke at the phone ringing, but only enough to determine whether Trowa was staying in bed or getting up. Trowa had murmured something, then packed with all the efficiency of years of practice in living -- Trowa called it 'light', Quatre called it 'with little' -- but the end result was the same. There was never reason to delay, and thus Quatre never had excuse to keep Trowa for a second longer. He even, sometimes, prided himself on letting Trowa go with only a quick kiss -- not even a jinxing 'good luck' or 'stay safe' or 'come home'. Some of the other agents complained bitterly when team-mates held them up because spouses or lovers wanted to indulge in long, drawn-out goodbyes. Quatre wasn't like those spouses. He respected Trowa's work, he admired it, and he knew it was of paramount importance in assuring the world's safety continued. 

Except that sometimes, he really  _really_  hated it, too. 

 

 

 

Yes, he was proud and pleased when Trowa had been promoted from General Agent to Special Agent -- or, in more colloquial terms, from First Lieutenant to Captain, given the ESUN's insistence on designating everyone and everything with standard GS-levels and military-styled titles. And when Trowa had come home with news he was up for another promotion, to Major -- or Special-Agent-in-Charge, if using the Preventers' Special Operations Division terms -- Quatre had been thrilled. 

He didn't give a damn about the whispers swirling around him at social functions that it wasn't  _proper_  for men so young to advance so fast. Duo, Wufei, and Heero had all come up for promotion within a month, plus or minus, of Trowa, and Quatre's businessmen peers were often Old Alliance boys, who made a point of remembering fondly, and pointedly, the days in which no Gundam Pilots would sweep every contest. No-name, no-family, no-breeding boys, they'd mutter; their words never bothered Quatre. Trowa's ability to do just that was only one of the reasons Quatre loved him. 

Quatre sighed and rolled over to his other side, mind awake and running in loops. It felt like a flashback to Zero; these long nights were the only time he ever suspected the program's hum had never truly left his brain. Peculiar, he reflected, and not for the first time. Of the five, only he had surviving family, and only he had chosen some career other than Preventers. Granted, his family's money had stymied Une's original plan to strong-arm them all into signing up as Good Examples of pugilist teenagers brought to heel -- and when he didn't go down, the other four had an easier time of evading Une long enough for them to each join on their own terms. 

But still, sometimes it felt... lonely. When the five got together, he was often relieved if Hilde or Relena could join them, or Sally, or  _anyone_ , because if left to his own with the other pilots, he knew there was a great deal they couldn't say in his presence. Oh, they could -- he retained his clearance, thanks to strong-arming Une right back, now that he had a few more years and knowledge right back at her -- but they wouldn't. It wasn't his world. He might rule the board room, but they remained on the battlefield.

"Damn it," he whispered to the empty room, and got up again. He'd at least managed three or four hours of sleep the first few nights, but five nights running now, he'd slept not a wink. Half of it was his own fault, too, torn between wanting to find someone,  _anyone_ , who could tell him what was going on, give him concrete details, so at least if there was risk, Quatre would know, as though this might alleviate the danger. 

It was only in the darkest hours of the morning that Quatre could, or would, admit the truth of the other half: an impulsive, angry wish to wrap up everything of Trowa's and pitch it off the balcony. 

He stood over the bar, knuckles whitening as he clenched the bottle of scotch, and wished he had a suitable target when he threw it -- and he would, he always did, at least once on those missions in which he was left in the dark, for days on end. He wanted to head out to whatever third-world backwater or stunted-tech colony housed Trowa, collar his husband securely, and drag him back to their apartment. He wanted to shake Trowa until the self-destructive, hard-headed  _idiocy_  broke off and left a Trowa he knew had to be under there, one who'd stop throwing sulky fits at any mention of money, who gracefully accepted that Quatre had plenty and wanted to share, and would stop haring off on crazy-ass super-secret missions that could get him killed, and instead stay  _home_ and be  _safe!_

Quatre leaned over, pressed his forehead into the bar's cool surface. Why, oh, why, he bemoaned -- an old refrain, by then, but with as much power as any stupid pop song's repetitive inane hook -- why, oh, why. Why did he have to fall for someone so bull-headed? Why did he have to fall for someone who got all defensive and petulant at the merest hint of Quatre 'spending' more money on Trowa than Trowa had to spend on Quatre? Whatever happened to the tradition that one-half could be the money-maker and the other half could be, well,  _not_? 

At least then, Trowa would be  _safe_. Not out there in some unknown place, bound and determined to prove to himself -- and everyone else -- that he wasn't beholden to Quatre, that he made his own way, that he was independent and self-sufficient, and the whole time Quatre half-wanted to applaud the sentiment, having felt it himself enough times as a teenager. And the other half of the time, Quatre just wanted to beat Trowa's head in for it. The truth was, Quatre  _wanted_  Trowa to be beholden, he  _wanted_  Trowa to rely on him. 

During the day, if anyone might've asked -- and he sometimes found himself braced, waiting for someone to do so, if only to justify the hours he'd spent turning it over in his head -- then he would say, I want Trowa to rely on me, because that's what couples do. They count on each other, trust each other to watch their backs. He would never deign to fight Trowa's battles for him, but if Trowa went down, Quatre would not hesitate to finish it on Trowa's behalf. That, Quatre assured himself, is the proper way to feel about a spouse, a lover, a best friend, to want that person to look to him for strength, for assurance.

But at night, when the apartment was too silent and the streets too far below and the scotch bottle shattered across the kitchen's tiled floor, then he had to admit it was because he wanted Trowa to  _need_  him. Just him. To not require the experience of counting coup on death, but to set that aside, to let  _Quatre_  be the one who gave his life purpose. To let Quatre  _be_  his purpose. It was sick, and unhealthy, and selfish, and Quatre hated himself for it, but there it was. A man so lethal, so self-contained, so impervious as Trowa, so strong and steadfast and devious and deep and -- truly, sadly, frustratingly  _unknowable_  -- that a man like that would ever, could ever, see Quatre as his strength... 

Then, perhaps, Quatre wouldn't spend the dark hours alone with the undeniable truth: that Trowa gained something from being separate that Quatre could not give him when together. That Quatre was, in the end, still the rich boy in the penthouse miles above the earth and far from the madding crowds, delicate and cut-off and undirtied and ignorant. 

Sometimes when Trowa would come home from a mission, Quatre would be tempted to call in late to work, blow off a meeting, just to stay in bed and watch Trowa sleep... he never could. And that, really, was due to Trowa, who'd come awake in that borderline-paranoia, post-mission edginess at being watched, and chide Quatre about not going to work. "You have that meeting coming up," and he always knew at least the basics of whatever project currently absorbed Quatre's days, "and I know it's important." Then he'd smile, that sleepy comfortable half-smile, eyes still closed, and murmur into the pillow, "I'll be here when you get home." And he always was.

Quatre would feel the tension shimmering under his skin at those words: it's important. No, he wanted to shout, it's not. It's a bunch of bloody fools sitting around and debating numbers that don't matter to anyone but them, and redesigning systems and products in so many phases only a fool would miss that it's all just so we can push papers and reports and spreadsheets from desk to desk, a massive game of business chairs where we all know as long as we keep pretending we're doing something  _important_  that no one will notice we've achieved so very little. It's a world of thunder, not lightning; board rooms are impressive, they're striking, they rumble and growl and make the world shake as stocks rise and fall and rise again. 

But Trowa's world was one of lightning strikes, silence until the finger of God rents the darkness in a brilliant flash, afterwards leaving the battlefield burned into an observer's retinas -- that was important. That was saving lives, preventing war, halting injustice, freeing the imprisoned, be it countries or ideas or even a single soul. Maybe once Quatre had stood at Trowa's shoulders when it came to doing anything important -- at that, Trowa had stood as Quatre's wingman -- but that day had been a long time past.

Turning, Quatre leaned against the bar and slid down the polished surface until he landed on the floor, staring out across the butler's pantry, the bar, the kitchen. It was the best spot to sit, he'd found; he could see the veranda doors, the front door, and the back servants' entry all from this one juncture. And when the phone rang -- as it did, then -- he was not only within a short reach for it, but he'd finally perfected the art of launching himself to his feet without catching his head on the underside of the bar. That twisting move had taken some practice. 

"Hello?" Quatre's voice sounded thick in his ears, courtesy the last of the scotch. Either it was Trowa, or it was Une, and the crackling pause over international -- or colonial -- lines was just a half-second too long for his heart. "Hello?"

"Hey." Trowa sounded dead on his feet. "Hey. Catching flight in..." Deep breath, a gathering of will: forcing himself to stay awake, aware. "Thirty minutes. ETA is fourteen hours." 

"Okay." Quatre wanted to hang on the line, but it was no more respectable to delay Trowa's return than it was to delay his departure. Therefore he opened his mouth a little wider while speaking, a faux-yawn. "Stay safe, and I'll see you then."

"Sorry I woke you."

"I'm glad you did." Quatre added a smile to his voice, but kept his words low, bending over so his mouth was half against his arm, as though he spoke with a pillow pressed against his face. The times Trowa's mission-end calls came at night, they had the same conversation, but neither changed it. For Quatre, it was ritual. He stretched out the last word, as though drifting off. "Love you."

"You, too," Trowa said, warmth rumbling his voice into something intimate, and then he disconnected.

Quatre stared at the phone for a long moment, then stood up straight, wide-awake. First, he called in to his sister Jessamine, and left her a message that he wouldn't be at the meeting at ten; she could call Julia and Quatre's sub-director would have all the details Jessamine needed. Then Quatre left a message with Michael, with news he'd be taking the day off, head's up about Jessamine, and a full list of various things Quatre needed done or delayed until day-after-next. Hanging up, Quatre did a quick survey of the apartment, room by room; the scotch bottles were bagged and put away, the broken glass -- and anything caught in the crossfire -- was swept up and pitched. 

At an hour and counting since Trowa's call, Quatre rang up Mary's night-time number, pleased as always when his former cook's answering service dutifully took down Quatre's entire shopping list, including replacement alcohol and -- this time -- only one low-ball and two tumblers. Mary, or one of her sub-contractors, would be by in the morning to clean out and restock the fridge, fill up the bar, create a simple but delicious meal and set it aside with directions for later cooking, probably do the dishes, mop, and -- despite his protests the first few times -- if he didn't show his face by then, Mary or her surrogate would often bring out the vacuum cleaner, then tackle the bathroom and the laundry. One time they'd even done all the windows, and since then he'd left double the tip, in sheer gratitude. 

Anything else? He always planned an actual list, but never wrote it out, preferring to leave no -- well, not evidence, since that would imply wrong-doing. He preferred to tell himself that it would only worry Trowa, and distract him, and the battlefield was the last place one needed that, as Quatre well knew. So he racked his mental list, and in the last half-hour or so of coherent thought, he practically upended his entire briefcase onto the living room's coffee table, stacking and arranging print-outs he'd read at least twice in the first day of Trowa's absence -- but that wasn't what mattered.

Only then did he shower, a long hot twenty minutes to relax himself, towel off and drop into bed. The clock said five-twenty-eight, and he counted the hours, then set the alarm to wake him two hours before Trowa got in. It wasn't quite as quick as his head hitting the pillow -- first he had to review his tasks, and make sure nothing was left undone -- and only then could he relax, knowing Trowa had boarded a shuttle or plane or train or boat, and would soon be walking through that door.

 

 

 

Five years of the pattern, and despite the crazy sleep schedule -- or lack of it -- the previous nine days, the eight hours of sleep was enough to take off the edge. Quatre hit the alarm, got dressed in his post-work clothes of old jeans and a sweatshirt, and walked out of the bedroom into an apartment that sparkled. He grinned at the little thank-you note written on the envelope he'd used to leave a tip, before dropping it into the shredder in his office, along with all the receipts he could gather for the pizza, chinese food, and various junk food he'd intermittantly, and half-heartedly, eaten while Trowa was gone. He checked the dinner's directions, set the timer, and started the roast to cooking; he messed up the towels in the bathroom, just a little, and balled up some tissue to throw in the trash so it didn't look quite so empty. 

When the door finally opened to reveal Trowa sagging against the frame, Quatre had been sprawled across the sofa with a boring brief in his hand, but mostly staring at the clock. He sat up, calling out a hello, sorted and stacked the brief in with the others, clearing off the sofa he'd only just covered with papers twenty minutes before.

"Hey," he said, brushing off his hands and taking Trowa's duffel bag from him. "That everything?"

"As usual." Trowa smiled, leaned into him, pressing his forehead against Quatre's, and relaxed further when Quatre put an arm around him. Trowa barely moved when Quatre angled himself to put out a bare foot and catch the door with his toes, swinging it shut without letting go of Trowa. "Sorry," Trowa said, avoiding anything more than a chaste kiss. "Not showered in too long. I must reek." He smiled again, softening the lines cut deep around his mouth, between his brows. "I want my toothbrush."

"Yeah." Some people didn't kiss upon waking up; Trowa didn't kiss right after missions. Quatre doubted it was from hygiene so much as something intangible, like bringing home mission dirt and spreading it about. "I'll run you a bath. Come on."

Trowa groaned, and kept his arm around Quatre's shoulders, feet dragging just a little down the hall to their bedroom. "Really hot?" His words slurred; bent over, his head nestled in the crook of Quatre's neck and shoulder. 

"Unless you'd prefer really cold," Quatre replied; Trowa just chuckled hoarsely. 

It happened every time, as soon as he crossed the threshold; he'd explained once to Quatre that he could stay alert and focused but the second he knew he was home, truly home, the adrenaline was gone in a flash and he had nothing left. That meant Quatre never met him at the door with breaking news, good or bad, and it meant guiding Trowa towards the bed or Quatre would find Trowa slumped over the dresser, sound asleep, for not having made it far enough before passing out. In the bedroom, Trowa sagged on the bed's corner while Quatre ran the bath, and then left him to the task of undressing and slipping into the bath. Trowa made a point of sloshing water at regular intervals, just waving his hands through the water; it kept Quatre from checking on him every ten seconds to make sure he'd not fallen asleep. 

Eventually Quatre could hear the tub draining, and waited a few minutes before checking to make sure Trowa had made it all the way to the bed. Then, for the first time in over a week, he watched the news, followed by a bit of a favorite television program, and felt comfortable and content. After two hours, he went to rouse Trowa. 

"Dinner's ready," he whispered. "Come on, get up." 

"Nunh." Trowa buried his face in the pillow.

Quatre laughed and lay down on the bed, on top of Trowa, and stretched his arms out alongside Trowa's, catching Trowa's fingers under the pillow. "Come on," he cajoled, and licked Trowa's bare shoulder. "Only way to kick the jet lag is get back on the local clock." 

"Nunh." This time, Trowa's grunt came with an accompanying thrust up of his hips. One brilliant green eye opened, looked at Quatre; Trowa did it again.

"Hey!" Quatre made a show of levering himself up, off Trowa. "You have to eat dinner before you get dessert."

Trowa made a face, rolled over onto his back, and pulled Quatre back down for a long kiss. He lightened the kiss to a long press of their lips, shifted to hold his forehead to Quatre's for several breaths, eyes closed, and then kissed him again, deep, searching, finding. Quatre sighed as Trowa dropped his head back onto the pillow, then tensed at the realization Trowa was giving him a strangely intent look.

"What?" Quatre started to pull away, but stopped when Trowa snaked out his arm and caught Quatre by the wrist. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I think." Trowa didn't let go. "Are you okay?"

"What?" Only one way to deal with that: Quatre laughed, but mixed in a bit of puzzlement. "I'm not the one who rode home on autopilot." 

Trowa didn't rise to the teasing. "Wufei said..." He glanced away, a line flickering between his brows; Quatre made sure to hold still, purposefully keeping his muscles relaxed, easy, his expression open. Trowa pursed his lips, and tilted his head back to stare up at Quatre. "Are you sure you're okay? It can't be easy, when I'm...when you don't know what's going on." 

"Well," Quatre said, slowly, dragging it out, like the idea was old enough that it held little interest for him, other than surprise at being mentioned. The subtle lightening of Trowa's hold on his wrist told him the attempt had been successful. "I'm not saying it's fun, but what you do matters. You're good at it, and I know you'll come home in one piece." The rest,  _or die trying_ , went unsaid.

"Yes, but it seems--"

"Seems what?" Quatre intentionally ignored that he'd just interrupted Trowa to question Trowa's words, but neither did he let Trowa keep going. He leaned forward, kissing Trowa again, even more passionately, then pulled back right at the point he knew Trowa was on the brink of melting. "I knew what you do when I asked you to move in, I knew when I asked you to marry me, and I haven't forgotten. I know how much it matters to you."

Trowa's frown went from slight to pronounced. "I'm not asking about me. I'm asking whether you're--"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Quatre rolled his eyes for good measure, but matched it with quick laughter, a joke to mask the gravity. "What, do you really want me to tell you that you can't do it anymore?" He kissed Trowa lightly on the nose. "I'd never do that. Yes, fine, I worry," he huffed, when Trowa didn't meet his eye. Quatre caught Trowa's chin and turned his face back up, and kissed him again, this time, slower and longer. He licked Trowa's lower lip once as he broke off the kiss, catching it between his teeth to pull a little before letting go. Trowa's eyes were glazed when Quatre raised his head. "But it's not like I'm curled up in a ball in the corner unable to move while you're gone, y'know. I have a pretty good idea of what you're usually up against, and I know you can handle it." 

Trowa smiled, then, the shy, tentative smile he got sometimes when he knew a compliment was genuine -- and deserved -- despite some part of him struggling to accept that it might be true. He shrugged, a soft roll of his shoulders, and looked away, whispering, "I just... I don't want you to be..."

"Trowa," Quatre said, letting his tone shade into exasperated. Time to shift from teasing, into a bit of defensiveness, Quatre noted, and it took no more than that to alter his expression and muscle tension properly. Trowa's face immediately became a touch apologetic, but Quatre had to play ignorant, just a little, to make the point. "If I were the kind of person who didn't believe you could do your job, I'd be the kind of person who'd want to wrap you in layers of cotton and keep you in a shoebox so you'd never get hurt."

He got a snort for his words, but with a slight curl of the lip that indicated a tiny bit of amusement amongst the disdain.

"Get over it," Quatre said, "and that's an order. I'm not that kind of person."

Trowa's smile grew, if abashed. "I know. That's..." He arched upwards to kiss Quatre again, and shifted until his hand rested in Quatre's, threading their fingers together. "That's why..." He looked down, then up again, and with another kiss, said what he rarely said out loud: it was what made him love Quatre so much. 

That was fine, Quatre knew. After all, Trowa was back home, where he belonged, and safe, and now Quatre had a chance to prove all over again that he would never truss Trowa in blankets and lock him away from danger. Quatre mumbled something about the roast, hoped he'd set the oven down to warm, and peeled away the blanket between them, opening to Trowa's seeking hands and wet mouth, flesh firm and real against his body. 

Trowa was home, and that was all that mattered.


	14. As We Grow Old: Trowa's Days

Trowa leaned over, eyes closing against the sight of Heero wiping blood between his legs and across the outside of his thigh. The bullet had ripped through the top inch of muscle along the front of Trowa's left leg, shredding the jeans in its wake. It had been a long thirty minutes; Heero bent over Trowa's thigh to pick out every minuscule thread while Callas held the flashlight steady. 

Heero pressed harder and the pain lanced straight up Trowa's spine, tensing every muscle; his head went back, banging against the wall, and his fingers convulsed in his shirt. It took several breaths before he could refocus on Heero's grim look, let alone register the meaning of Heero's words.

"It should be a general."

"I can't have--" Trowa grit his teeth. He wasn't up for more than a word at a time, not with Heero's fingers remaining pressed on the wound. "No."

Heero just grunted, and motioned to his Second, who got the needle ready. Trowa leaned back, fingers no longer just holding his shirt out of the way; somewhere along the line, they'd become clenched and he doubted they'd come undone without effort. Heero was capable, hell, more than capable, when it came to putting anyone back together. He just wasn't too gentle about it. 

"Ten more inches and Quatre would've been a very disappointed man." Heero could have been deleting spam in his inbox for all the emotion he showed, thumping the syringe to dislodge bubbles. He did at least notice the quiver of Trowa's flesh against the needle; Heero kept his hand on Trowa's knee, steadying him. 

Trowa gasped as the needle went in. No private medicine fine-pointers for them; it was all battlefield kits. He'd seen motorcycle exhaust hoses smaller than what Heero had just shoved into him, but he wasn't going to let Heero have the satisfaction of the last word.

"Five more," Trowa corrected. Heero just snorted.

The leg throbbed with every heartbeat, aching in time with the bruise on his sternum. At least he'd had armor between himself and the gang's one crack shot -- except armor might catch a bullet, but force had to go somewhere. He instinctively rubbed his chest, but jerked his hand away when the touch made pain radiate through every bone. 

Trowa stared over Heero's head. Easier to focus elsewhere than on Heero's fingers nimbly threading needle through layers of tangled, torn flesh and muscle. The stationmaster's battered phone sat on a wobbly desk in the corner, holding down stacks of train schedule printouts. Trowa's fingers itched to push Heero aside and reach for the phone. He wanted to call Quatre -- not that he'd tell his lover  _quite_  all the details, of course -- but if anyone would know what to do, Quatre would. Trowa could say, I have an eight-man team that's down to five. Two serious injuries, one bad enough to disable but not so bad he couldn't get the other two out, so I sent them on ahead of us. Duo's team arrives far too soon, likely with the bad guys hot on his trail... what do I do?

Quatre would know, he'd turn his gaze inward and see straight to the heart, how to get out alive  _and_  with honor -- and Trowa needed that advice badly, right then. He couldn't rely on sheer power forcing them through; he could only play that card when he had Wufei's team at his side. Duo's team was handpicked for its stealth and speed, first in and first out, and more likely to blend into the shadows than stand in the middle of the street hefting a machine gun. 

Trowa was a fine tactician, he knew, but he wasn't much of a broad strategist. He and the other three were much alike in that sense: you've got a red paperclip, three and a half magazines, a shoelace, and one grenade, the other guy has two yellow paperclips but otherwise the same as you, now get to it. What they lacked was Quatre's ability to see how all the paperclips might fit together, to string four disparate personalities into a lethal force, adjusting even for those like Wufei and Heero, who tended to be distracted by their own goals, if not held in check. Hell, Quatre did it every day in the boardroom, and that took a lot more skill than pulling a pin before tossing the small ticking rock far enough to have time to duck before things went sky-high.

Trowa tried to distract himself. Tally his resources, as he'd seen Quatre do, but that got him nowhere. He couldn't rely on Heero's team, not in the manner Trowa required; they were the defensive end, the tenacious ones who always got everyone out in one piece, but they'd arrived mid-firefight and taken damage for it, too. A badly twisted ankle, a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, a jammed kneecap, minor but extensive lacerations, nothing to disable but enough to throw them off their game a hair. Heero himself had a nasty-looking bruise across one cheek. He'd see a gang-member take aim and with all the force of wartime spirit, Heero had knocked his Second out of the way. The force of his full-body blow spun them both around and sent them flying -- away from the gunman, true, but right over the loading dock's edge. 

From Trowa's vantage point covering them both, he'd seen Heero instinctively -- and so characteristically -- twist in mid-air to make sure he landed first. He didn't quite make it, landing instead on his shoulder and cheek instead of square on his back. His Second was concussed, but if he'd landed straight on her, she would've been crushed. It was almost-good, almost-bad, and almost certain to mean a lot of hollering in the locker room at mission's end. 

Duo would be all business from the moment they met up -- as much as he could be while playing the chattering jester, but Heero would never deviate from his deadpan single-mindedness. Trowa knew that trait would get them all out in one piece, no doubt. Afterwards, the call home, the long trip of sullen exhausted men and women, a lengthy debriefing, and then off to the locker-room to trade out their ripped and bloody mission clothes and change into street clothes. That's when Duo would shift: the length of time a quarter takes to land from edge to face, and Duo would give Heero a bruise on his other cheek to equal the first. Just for being so pigheaded.

Trowa wouldn't even admit it to himself except in the quickest passing, but he was rather in awe that Duo did that so fearlessly. Trowa himself would never dream of punching Heero, no matter how stubborn the man could be; he respected and admired Heero far too much. Wufei sometimes exasperated Trowa, but neither would he ever strike Wufei; it was out of the question to take such liberties with a man of Wufei's integrity. And if they were out of the question, punching Quatre -- for any reason -- was utterly incomprehensible. Sadly, though, he'd never had reason again to punch Duo. Someday, maybe, he would. The idea alone was enough to give a man reason to keep living, sometimes.

And put a smile on his face enough to ignore the ignominy of being hauled off by Heero to be patched up, or the impending agony of putting on a clean pair of jeans and walking out of the room like it'd all been a misunderstanding, that he was fine, and his team could rely on him as they always had. Almost forty-five minutes later, moment came. There was no hesitation. Trowa finished buttoning up his jeans, ignored Heero's attempt to carry his duffel bag for him, took a deep breath... and walked away from the untouched phone.

 

 

 

It wasn't all sweetness and light, living with Quatre. Most of the time it was quite enjoyable, and after a year's adjustment to the huge spaces and omnipresent servants and the conference calls at three a.m. because of time differences... Trowa stared into his champagne glass, and had dark thoughts for people who couldn't at least respect that if it was  _their_  issue, they could at least arrange a meeting on  _their_  time, and not Quatre's. Although the last time that'd happened, he'd woken to find the one-hour meeting must've become two; sure enough, Quatre had the phone on speaker and was pacing the office, around the desk, fiddle with a pen, tap the laptop and peer at the display, pace around again, hands on hips.

Trowa smiled, and hoped anyone watching just assumed he thought champagne amusing -- when in fact, the amusement came from gently pushing Quatre down to the edge of the desk -- all the while Quatre gave lengthy instructions on how he wanted this issue resolved, and when, and by whom, and next steps, and follow-up assignments... which was really quite impressive that he could even be coherent, with Trowa on his knees, hands gripping Quatre's ass, and Quatre's dick deep between Trowa's lips. Except it was also a little bit insulting, too: Trowa had invested more than a scant few years on perfecting his Quatre-seduction skills, yet Quatre's mouth kept moving, and  _not_  for begging. No, for things unrelated to, say, the fact that Trowa was using those hard-won, much-practiced perfect skills. Rather aggravating, all things considered. It was only logical to take his own next step, untie his robe, and slip a free hand down between his legs to stroke his own erection.

There was nothing quite so wonderful as that  _catch_  in Quatre's voice, at the sight of Trowa touching himself. He'd never figured out where that kink came from, but it ran deep, and the reaction was always immediate and responsive. That time had been no different. Amazing, how fast Quatre could wrap up a meeting when he had incentive. Thirty seconds, by Trowa's heartbeat-count, and suddenly he was on his back across a priceless Oriental rug, Quatre pinning him to the floor, flushed and growling and possibly still a bit miffed by the combination of annoying underlings and a persistent lover. So? The end result was complete attention on Trowa. Nothing to complain about, there, even if the bruises on his hips and shoulders -- and a few bite marks -- would result in circumspect elbowing amongst his team, behind his back. 

"The champagne can't be that entrancing a conversationalist." Quatre's breath hit warm across Trowa's neck, then his cheek was pressed to Trowa's, chin on Trowa's shoulder. He probably fully intended the non-verbal reminder that he was Trowa's height, now, but Trowa just shifted his weight to lean back against Quatre, just a fraction. Quatre leaned into him, in turn, then moved away, coming to stand beside him at a more appropriate distance for a social gathering. "On the other hand," he commented, in an undertone, "I suspect concrete blocks could hold a more fascinating conversation than the Dukes over there."

"Your party," Trowa said, blandly, and sipped the drink. "Though I'd rather prefer tequila."

"Out of the question." Quatre snorted. "Not after that time you convinced Relena to eat the worm."

Trowa gave him an innocent look, marred by a twitch of his lips. Quatre just huffed. His public version, at least: a slight deepening to the line between his brows, mouth tightening but not in a flat line, more like the tiniest curl that made a shadow of a dimple appear in his cheek. Then he turned away, to greet whomever approached, return to his role of consummate host. Trowa smiled to his drink again, watching Quatre tilt his head, a posture of listening closely to the three women and one man reciting their grievances. That was the Quatre the rest of the world saw, and Trowa couldn't help but stare, comparing that version to the one he knew as his own. Quatre didn't really laugh a great deal, or even smile widely; Trowa could probably name on two hands all the times he'd seen Quatre grin, not counting his wolfish smile in the bedroom. With the other pilots, Relena, Hilde, sometimes Sally, Quatre's smile was genuine, but still a small, quiet thing, as though tempered by a hint of sadness. 

With strangers, acquaintances, Quatre's smile was a little wider but his brows remained level, or came down a touch, if he found the person annoying or incompetent. It was a tell he couldn't mask, really, or perhaps Trowa was one of the few -- hopefully only -- people with the time and exposure to catch the subtleties. Most of the time, Quatre's expression was a neutral politeness; he'd cock his head towards a person though his body leaned minutely away in counterbalance, brows slanted and eyes half-closed while he ran through the ramifications of the person's words thoroughly before replying. 

Sometimes Trowa wondered if Heero's theory wasn't right after all. He'd reported -- after the final battle -- that Quatre had re-used and subsequently refused ZERO. Watching Quatre, listening to him, fighting -- and then living -- alongside him, Trowa sometimes wondered if Quatre's mind whispered to him all the time, like the faint memories Trowa had of ZERO coaxing him into perceiving the world, reality itself, in ZERO's terms. Heero's haunted Trowa: perhaps, somehow, ZERO had not mangled Quatre like the others, because his brain had required no re-wiring to handle ZERO's patterns. That, instead, ZERO had simply smoothed what already existed. It only made Trowa all that more determined to hold his own, and not be counted an obstacle. 

"Mister Barton," a voice said, and Trowa turned to find a young woman with Quatre's smile and gold-blond hair curling at the ends, but brown eyes. "I'm Eliza Winner." She held up a plate of hors d'ouerves with one hand, a bundle of napkins with the other. "I'd shake, but..." 

He smiled his sympathy. "The pastries are good, but messy. You're... Quatre's....fourth cousin?"

"Third cousin, once removed." She looked around, eyes going a bit wide, then back up at Trowa. "So many important people here! This is my first business trip to Earth, and I had no idea I'd need to bring a formal gown. My boss didn't warn me at all!"

"Your boss?" Trowa had no idea who the girl might work for. A sister, most likely, and if Eliza had approached him, it was either a sister who swore Trowa secretly had a second and third head hidden in his suit jacket's shoulders, or a sister who actually liked him. The latter category was only about three names, if he were being honest.

"Coraline Winner-Schwartz. I'm in Marketing, I've only been doing it for about six months, I just graduated from the University on L3 last year--" Her gaze hadn't settled on him but that once; she stared about them with the fascination of a small bird surrounded by snakes. Trowa couldn't help but be amused, remembering his own staunch refusal to let his discomfort show, the first four or fourteen events like this. "--My Dad helped me get an internship and it's been so exciting, Coraline works you hard but nobody knows the stuff like she does, and--" Eliza's words abruptly broke off into a stuttered, partly-squashed, shriek-- "Oh my stars is that Relena  _Peacecraft_?"

Trowa glanced in that direction, to see Quatre kissing Relena on the cheek, then offering his arm. The two made for a handsome couple, if Trowa were being objective. He felt a stab of pity for the young girl, staring open-mouthed. No one had done it for him -- though he'd refused to ever show even a split-second of imbalance at the names and celebrities circling -- and this girl was as good as colony-born and -bred and -insulated. Gently he took her by the arm, handed over her plate and his glass to a passing waiter, and strolled towards Relena and Quatre. The motion caught Quatre's attention, and Trowa knew from the just-so arching of Quatre's brow that his own expression had to be somewhat mischievous.

"Relena," Trowa said, and accepted a kiss on the cheek. "May I introduce Quatre's cousin, Eliza Winner. She's visiting from L4."

"A pleasure," Relena replied, offering her hand. Eliza's mouth opened, closed, opened, closed. Relena didn't miss a beat. "Have they finished building that huge shopping complex on the Fourth Ring?"

Eliza gave a slight squeak, grip tightening on Trowa's arm. 

"It's not far from the Winner main offices," Relena explained to Quatre, although Trowa was aware Quatre knew exactly where it was: Quatre had done a year as general contractor there, after Mariemaia's War. Trowa did that kind of misdirection himself, for more devious purposes, and it was almost pleasurable to see Relena using it for diplomatic, compassionate reasons: it took attention off Eliza, involved Quatre, and gave Eliza a chance to recover her senses. "I heard Stessen-Lutz is opening their first boutique there, and I can't wait for a chance to go see the newest collection."

A garbled sound from Eliza, a cough, and then Eliza managed to gather herself. "My boss attended the Stessen-Lutz show last month," she said. "I've got the photographer's entire disk loaded onto my computer--" She froze. "Oh, but that's proprietary information..." Eliza's gaze turned to Quatre, and she went beet-red. 

Trowa glanced at Quatre, who looked back, steadily, and they both looked at Relena, waiting. She made a moue, flirting a little with Quatre, and told Eliza, "I'm so tempted, but I wouldn't want to get you in trouble. If anyone charge heard..."

Quatre put his hands over his ears, tilted his head back, and began to chant softly, "la, la, la."

Eliza giggled, and Relena whispered, "Maybe just a peek..."

Trowa left them, then, catching a moment to walk with Quatre through the gathering, until they were separated once again by another group of supplicants, wanting WEI to do this, or that, or let them meet with this division, or what was going on with the developments in the project for the ESUN. He had little interest in such things, and given his widely-known status as a Preventer, fully disinterested in any hint that Quatre ever used Trowa's connections to land WEI contracts. He excused himself, and continued to count down the minutes until the evening would be over, they could say their polite goodbyes, and then he could molest Quatre thoroughly in the limousine's backseat while they were stuck in traffic on the Forty-Fifth street bridge.

An hour later, Eliza asked him to dance and he had to turn her down; Quatre had made a fair attempt, but Trowa -- for all his other skills -- was never going to be a dancer. Not in any style suitable to a lavish social celebration, at least. So instead, Eliza remained at his side, making conversation, and probably looking for a way to thank him for the introductions. He kept a careful hand on the conversation, touched but a bit embarrassed by her obvious gratitude. 

Finally Eliza leaned over and tried to whisper oh-so-softly, "I have to ask... is it true? You're carrying a..." She glanced around, and just mouthed the word:  _gun_.

Startled, Trowa nodded gravely.

"Wow." She shifted away, looking completely at odds with herself. Half-fascinated, half-repelled, maybe. "Wow," she repeated, then frowned. "But I thought you're... wait, Coraline told me, I'm sorry--"

"Mechanics and Engineering division," Trowa supplied.

"Right. So you fix things. Why do you need a gun?"

"I'm still a Preventer." Trowa sipped his glass, to give him a moment. Her innocence -- and ignorance -- was rather charming, compared to the usual Winner Sister Attitude he normally received -- the one that sometimes tempted him to pull his sidearm and tell them  _exactly_  how he spent his days, and it had nothing to do with his cover of being a contract reviewer for the Parts Department. "I'm sworn to uphold the law. If, for instance, something happened tonight, the security guards--" He nodded to the Preventers, stationed at points around the ballroom, working the off-hours for extra money. "Would expect me to assist, as a fellow officer." He smiled at Eliza's sudden worry. "Nothing will happen." 

"Oh, I know, I mean, right... but..." She frowned, turning it over, a look similar to Coraline's, now that Trowa thought about it. "I guess the rest of the time, you can at least protect the airplanes if someone tries to hijack them while you're working on them, right?"

"I wish I got to work on them." Trowa couldn't hide the longing. The only mechanical fun he had, most of the time, was dismantling and reconstructing his motorcycle. The rest of the time, he shared an office with Duo -- ostensibly managing large swathes of the Preventers' mechanical inventory and related personnel. Or he was off on missions, which were 'business trips' to anyone lacking a certain, nosebleed-inducing clearance level. "I'm in an office, these days."

"That's safer, at least. And cleaner, too!" 

"True." Even if his job was neither. Conversations like these were one of the few times he found it hard to adopt the infiltration-mindset, to pretend. It meant claiming a role, a life, that he didn't have... and in some ways, secretly, wanted. He could work regular hours then, all the time, leave in the morning and be certain he'd be coming home, could make plans and have some level of reliance on knowing those plans wouldn't be thrown by a midnight call... and could be ready instantly when Quatre had a moment free. "I enjoy it, though." He had to, in fact; he'd known for a long time that Quatre was intensely independent. Overhearing the Maganacs complain that 'Master' Quatre had gone off on his own without them, yet again, had only confirmed his suspicion, and the knowledge never left him. If he hovered about, he'd end up being one more person Quatre had to evade, skillfully and with a smile, but... No, it was better to make himself scarce, else he'd only make Quatre feel suffocated. 

"Strange how life works out, hunh." Eliza's voice grew softer, contemplative. The shock must've worn off, and she'd begun acclimating to the ostentatious level her cousin considered a simple social gathering. "You're a mechanic and he's..."

"One of the top three wealthiest men in the entire Earth Sphere?" Trowa shrugged. "He still puts his pants on one leg at a time."

"Mister Barton," Eliza gasped.

"He'd tell you that himself." Trowa softened the correction with a smile. "Yes, though, life can be strange."

"Just seems like you'd have..." She chewed her lip, gaze on Relena and Quatre waltzing through the crowd. "You have so little in common. How can you make a relationship work when all you've got is..." She flushed. "I don't mean  _all_ , not like that. I mean... I'm sorry. I'm prying."

"All relationships are work." Trowa thought of Duo. "Some more than others." He shrugged again, a hint of movement more than a definitive gesture. "Your cousin and I have a lot more in common than we have in difference, though."

Certainly, they had enough differences to prompt their share of arguments, though Trowa had to admit -- if only to himself -- that most ended with Trowa walking out. Despite that, his feet inevitably turned him around again, and carried him back to Quatre. Why? It wasn't just a question of what made him want to return, but what made Quatre want him back, want him there in the first place? He had nothing to offer, literally nothing -- other than his body and his mind, and not like Quatre couldn't get better versions of each. Not with Quatre's looks and education and charm and money, of course, the money. 

 _You're a mechanic, and he's..._  Even if the cover were pulled back, the action revealed no other truths:  _You're an infiltration specialist occupied in ways no civilized government likes or wants to admit is necessary, and he's..._  Quatre. 

Trowa spent his days sneaking into places, or blowing his way out of them, running under the radar and hoping he'd make it out alive. His orders would impact the lives of eight people, maybe sixteen, maybe end thirty others, give or take a dozen, not give jobs to a million people. A sweep of his hand would slit a throat, not raise entire school systems. Any light he brought the world was a single flashlight beam on eighty cases of smuggled drugs, not the energy of a satellite-city hanging in earth's orbit. Quatre was the grand, world-changing gesture, while Trowa was on the edges, unnoticeable: by nature, by design, perhaps by default. 

"I guess..." Eliza's voice brought him back to the present, and the rising crescendo of strings as the waltz came to its end. "I guess what really matters is being willing to work at it, as best you can. Then it's worth it. Do you think?"

For a long time, he'd been certain his status as fellow Gundam pilot was the sole reason Quatre had been friendly. It had taken several years for him to comprehend the extent of his mistake. Quatre was often friendly, but offered friendship itself to very few. That, too, had sent Trowa running, at terror of finding what he wanted handed to him so freely. Who was he, a no-name, to deserve such as Quatre's heart? How could he ever be enough to be worth even a fraction of Quatre? 

Trowa considered it, and told her, "That answer is as good as any."

 

 

 

"All clear?" Trowa waited, getting a full head-count before he gave the signal to his second to put the truck in gear. The truck's engine rumbled as it pulled onto the gravel road, the team jounced roughly on the wooden seats with every lurch into a pothole and back out again. Their progress was more noise than speed; Trowa estimated at least twenty hours, assuming the manufacturing syndicate wasn't fooled by Heero's and Wufei's decoys. Hiding a truck doing its best to streak across nine hundred miles of jarring, uneven, little-travelled ruts -- dust spreading out in whorls in their wake -- was about on the level of hiding a damn Gundam on the back of an eighteen wheeler's flatbed. You could do it, but it did require that no one look too closely as you drove past. 

"Hey, Cap'n," Chavero called, from his spot at the very rear of the truck. He pulled himself in from where he'd clung to the canvas tenting while he scoped out the rolling terrain. "Still clear." 

Trowa didn't bother to yell over the engine, the constant clattering of weapons shaking loose from straw bedding to knock around inside the wooden boxes, or the bump-bump-thump of bodies doing their best to acclimate to an impossible, unpredictable motion. He just waved a hand, a larger version of the usual, "good" and "keep at it" signals. It wasn't until he caught his Third staring at him, pointedly, that he looked down to see the blood soaking his shirt. Guess one of those knife-thrusts had actually made contact. 

A minute more of her glare, and Trowa gave up, banging on the scarred plastic between truckbed and cab. Soon Weissman snaked through the opening, ready to take over Trowa's position at center-guard point. Trowa, in turn, gingerly angled himself through the small opening, thanking his few remaining acrobatic skills that he could get such long arms and legs through something the size of -- well, a fucking cat-door. He came down hands-first onto the passenger seat, and with a deft twist, brought his legs up and over, waiting for a solid pothole to boost his abbreviated handspring and come down head-up. Kessler looked impressed, and that almost made the dizziness worth it.

Then Kessler saw the blood. "Shit, Barton, the rest of--"

"Can it." Trowa leaned back to accept the first-aid kit, passed up from Palmer's bag. When he arched his back to pull his shirt off, the truck hit another hole, bouncing Trowa right up into the ceiling, forehead smashed against the metal. He fell back with a cut-off cry, hand holding his head. Kessler asked, and Trowa immediately dropped his hand, brushing his forehead as though wiping away the flare of agony in his skull. He still had... maybe eighteen-something hours, by his guess, or thereabouts, not counting a ten-hour flight to Brussels. He'd hold on, until then. Somehow.

It took twenty minutes, by himself, in the cab of the truck with only Kessler's quick, assessing looks to keep him company. Trowa packed the gauze, nearly bit through his tongue at the stabbing touch of peroxide on open wound, and wrapped himself up with an efficiency learned in years of experience. The blood had dried across the hip of his jeans, turning dark blue into a sickly brown. Trowa gingerly pulled his only other shirt over his head, and kept his head tilted -- just in case the truck went over another timely dip in the ruts. 

When night fell, they discovered the reason the truck had been given up with so little fight. Neither headlamp worked. Heads were going to roll when Heero discovered what his team had supplied, that was for sure, but first, they couldn't just sit there under moonlit skies with no cover for a hundred miles in any direction. Fifteen minutes of cursing, and then Madden -- the loaner from Duo's team, and therefore no surprise to be with both duct tape and the willingness to use it -- came up with the modification of six strong flashlights strung along the truck's hood. Not headlamps, but better than twelve hours of Siberian darkness. 

Lafayette took over the wheel, but the team flatly refused to let Trowa into the back to take his turn as guard. As far as he was concerned, he was perfectly capable, but he wouldn't risk his dignity arguing with six agents who seemed to consider it a done deal. He'd bring it up with them later. Just enough that they knew he wasn't pleased; it'd never show up in any report or review. He knew it, and they knew it, and it always surprised him that they would correct their courses despite the lack of official threat. 

Giving a reprimand -- but keeping it respectful, and private -- was just one more thing that others seemed to think a great skill of his. What would they think if they knew he had no instinct for such? The subtle, he could do that, granted; he would've sucked at infiltration otherwise. It was just that sometimes he found too much pleasure in that instinct for the soft underbelly, in laying bare the vulnerable core every person holds close. He didn't seem to know when it was time to shut up, not unless someone held him back or got in his way, and he'd always wondered why that was so. What was it that made him relish the notion of calmly, succinctly, so casually pointing out what another believed safely hidden from sight? 

If there were a way to measure such skills, Trowa would've been unsurprised to find Quatre's were superior when it came to cataloging the weaknesses of an opponent. The man wouldn't be half the businessman and diplomat he were, if he weren't also an unparalleled judge of character. But Quatre knew how to  _imply_  that he'd noted a weakness, and with a gentle smile, conclude the conversation there. The object of his gentle ire would invariably -- and Trowa had witnessed it many times -- seem both relieved at escaping any harsher judgment, and yet also determined to never do it again. It was almost as though Quatre had a way of speaking that said, laced through his words and distantly-kind smile, that he'd seen to the person's heart, saw the weakness, and was willing to forgive it... this time. He never once said to anyone, don't let it happen again. He didn't need to. 

Trowa winced when the truck huffed up an incline and fell into the next rut with a bone-jarring drop, jolt jarring his injury. The truck seemed to slide sideways down the hillside a little, bald tires scraping rock-faces before catching at clumps of tall steppe grass and setting it straight again. Lafayette had a death-grip on the wheel, practically steering by force of will. A few voices chatted in the back, while others slept; Messerman snored with enough gusto to nearly drown out the engine's low rumble. The jounces had become slower, gentler shakes, at least. 

Late at night, on missions far from home, Trowa relished the rare break. Saddled with a truck full of illegal Gundumian-based weaponry, a handful of injured, hungry, and tired team-members, and one fully-awake agent fighting for every foot of gained ground on the beaten roads, it required darkness for Trowa to allow -- even for three heartbeats -- any weakness of his own. He turned his face to the broad sky out the truck's open window, clouds scudding past to obscure then reveal the constant shine of L2 as it hovered within the moon's gravity well. L4 would be on the horizon, soon, but his husband was four thousand miles across the earth's surface, perhaps sleeping, perhaps waking; Trowa tried to remember the time difference, and couldn't. 

What he wouldn't give, times like these, to be able to call up Quatre and say, tell me I can do this. Remind me that you, at least, believe in me.

 

 

 

 

The monthly check-in with the Preventers' psychologist rolled around, and Trowa expected the usual questions, usual answers at the ready. No, he never felt himself a danger to himself or anyone else -- a ridiculous question, considering he was quite a danger to a good many people on the planet, if ordered to be. No, he had no inclination to hurt himself. Yes, he had a drink every now and then. And so on. 

What he didn't expect was the doctor to set aside his stylus pad and say, "Mister Barton -- may I call you Trowa?"

Trowa shrugged. He was mostly used to Cap'n, by now; the nickname seemed to have stuck even if he ranked as a Major. 

"I was familiarizing myself with your file before we met. I noticed you were married three years ago, but you count your anniversaries from '99." 

So like the Preventers: even a detail so inconsequential had been noted. Again, Trowa shrugged, but offered, "that's when we started dating."

"I see. You joined Preventers around that time?"

Trowa nodded, once.

"So you've been in a relationship -- the same relationship, I should qualify -- the entire time you've been working in the Special Operations Division. Correct?"

Obviously, but Trowa saw little reason to say that out loud.

"Preventers has a high divorce rate, equal to most police officer rates, but you guys in Ops are quadruple that. Your success really stands out, which brings me to my question."

Trowa listened with a purposefully neutral expression, but growing confusion.

"What's your secret?"

Startled, Trowa regarded the doctor more closely; the man  _felt_  sincere, and Trowa turned the question over in his head. A secret? Could he say he had any such insight? There were so many things about Quatre that sometimes drove him to distraction, but there were just as many things that made Trowa feel like... like Quatre wanted him there. Trowa knew, better than anyone, that Quatre by all rights should pitch him out and be done with it -- if not that day, eventually. Trowa didn't fit in Quatre's world, didn't fit in Quatre's home, didn't fit in a million little ways. Sometimes that knowledge made Trowa just as obstinately not  _want_  to fit.

"Trowa?"

He'd always imagined there could be no greater happiness than to have someone who could, would, shine such brightness into Trowa's life. It scared him sometimes -- okay, lots of the time, really -- but he clung to it, with a tenacity that scared him just as much. When Quatre turned his face to Trowa, focused on him, opened to him, Trowa was sometimes tempted to grab his belongings and run. Casually strolling away as he had at fifteen, had been a supreme act of will to hide just how terrified he was. If it was delicious, amazing, earth-shaking to receive Quatre's love, it would be unbearable, devastating, earth-shattering, to lose it. 

"I don't know," Trowa admitted. "I think..." 

Getting married had meant accepting that he could live with knowing Quatre was so...  _much_ , even if Trowa so little. He'd once counted himself pathetic for hovering at the edges of Quatre's busy, important, glittering world. Now he knew to count himself lucky, to have those rare moments with Quatre, when there were no phones or meetings or trips or any of the thousand other things that always demanded Quatre's attention. The long hours after each moment, he worked like hell to be worthy of the next. 

He gave the doctor a weary smile. "I suppose," he said, picking his words carefully, "it helps to marry someone like my husband." 

 

 

 

Mid-mission ritual: check the time, count the seconds. When leaving, he'd pause to memorize the clock's time, then pause the merest bit longer, wishing Quatre would catch him by the shirt and drag him down, kiss him breathless, shove his hand down Trowa's pants and jerk him off ruthlessly, cheerfully, madly, like the way he did sometimes when he thought Trowa was concentrating just a little too hard on a crossword puzzle. But that never happened after any sudden phone calls with an unknown voice on the line stating the current alert-code. Nine days, six hours, and thirty-eight minutes since he'd leaned over to kiss Quatre's bare shoulder. 

It was cold comfort when he and Duo ended up trapped between opposing forces, literally back-to-back, and down to two magazines -- with dire mutterings from Duo that if they made it out, he was  _nailing_  an extra magazine to Trowa's forehead. Next thing they knew, the firefight had stopped. They weren't sure whether the enemy had decided to wait them out, starve them out, were busy training a bazooka on their location, or had gotten bored and gone off bowling... so sitting tight was all they could do. In the breathless silence, Duo's mucles against his back were a welcome, grounding warmth.

Like so many other times, Trowa struggled against the frustration: if  _this_  was the time things had to go sour, he'd would've wanted one last chance to show Quatre how much he meant to Trowa, how much Trowa owed him, admired him, desired him, needed him... It wasn't that Quatre didn't care, but that wasn't the kind of person Quatre was, to need that reassurance. He had a strength of will, of vision, and if Trowa lost his faith, he could at least take shelter in knowing that Quatre had determined he'd come home. 

Sometimes, it seemed to Trowa, that once Quatre had decided something would be so, for the world to go against that crystal-pure absolute that the earth must also summarily stop on its axis, the rivers run backwards, the moon fly into the sun. Trowa held onto that, when he'd been reduced to gunshots and body counts and exit routes, when he stood on the verge of retreating through twenty years back to the mercenary-child hiding within him. He could walk into this nightmare, because  _Quatre_  knew he would walk out again. 

And therefore, it would be so.

Duo was checking his ammunition. "What's your count?"

"One and a half."

"Pathetic, Barton."

Trowa's turn to grunt, then. He never intended to run out, seriously, and if he got one more annual joke-award from his fellow SAC's about it, he was going to tell Quatre. Then, he knew, they'd be sorry. It made him feel warm inside, and he must've relaxed, because Duo tensed suddenly.

"This is why," he said.

"Why what?"

"I think Heero's wrong." He laughed, in that bitterly quiet way he had that always left Trowa uncertain whether it was a joke, and just who the joke was supposed to be on, if so.

He bit, anyway. "About?"

"Short goodbyes." 

"Hm?" A whole world in that sound, from years of shared battles.

Duo didn't nudge him, just leaned back a little harder. "Your spine's bony."

Trowa grunted, heartbeats passing, and nothing to do but wait. For someone who could be so rash, Duo's patience could match Trowa's when he set his mind to it -- or had no other options. Then Trowa realized the meaning in Duo's vague words. 

"All I get," he'd admitted. "Until I'm back."

"Shit." Duo made a disgusted sound; the barrel of one of his guns dipped, tapping against the concrete. "If we have to go down, at least one of us should've gotten some first."

"I certainly hope you're not offering."

The only reply was a startled snort... followed by a muffled sound that made no sense until Trowa carefully craned his neck, catching a glimpse of Duo laughing silently, fingers gripping his gun but the back of his wrist shoved into his mouth to quiet the sound. Not hysterical post-battle adrenaline, nor the caustic laugther that often grated on Trowa's nerves, but genuine glee. Trowa glanced around, saw no motion through the bullet-holes of the garage's metal doors, heard no footsteps, and turned around just enough to give Duo a puzzled, annoyed look.

He just laughed harder, until Trowa frowned and reached out to take Duo's last magazine. In a flash, Duo had his hand on the precious object, clutching it to his chest like a small boy. His lips twitched, then he started to chuckle again. Trowa just stared. 

Finally Duo quieted, giving Trowa a look of pure amusement. "Oh, come on! You just know if we were found taken out while in flagrante delicto, the others would drop dead from shock. Anyone insisting you 'n me could get along for more than thirty seconds, let alone long enough to get naked, would probably get immediately stamped, certified, and sent off to the loony bin for hallucinating." 

Trowa considered that, and in the peculiar moment of a dusty, blood-stained, gun-torn desert evening, he began to chuckle, imagining Quatre's face, then Heero's. They'd definitely be convinced it was a setup. Wufei would be right behind them. He stifled the first chuckle, but couldn't for the second, and soon he was leaning back against Duo, laughing with his own hand shoved into his mouth. Duo elbowed him, grunted, and soon was laughing as well.

Heero found them there not long afterwards, his team almost done cleaning the streets with tear gas and retrieving the trapped members of Duo's and Trowa's teams. But not the two leaders, who were stretched out almost full-length across a garage floor, both shaking from head to toe with the effort of keeping silent. Trowa rolled over on his back to see Heero staring down at them open-mouthed. Then Heero shook himself and offered them both a wary hand up. He hefted them to their feet and looked them over, bewilderment written clear across his handsome, dust-covered features. Trowa tried to keep a straight face, and only partially made it, while Duo made a huffing sound and wiped tears from his eyes.

Heero's brows came down, and he studied them both for another full minute. "My team will need to know if you've been exposed to any unknown substances," he finally said.

"Say what?" Duo elbowed Trowa, who snorted, tried to save, and failed, breaking into a grin. Duo poked Heero in the chest, and grinned just as widely. "What makes you think we're on anything? Maybe we're high on life, ever think about that, soldier-boy?"

Heero blinked, and Trowa could see the wheels turning before the last cog slipped neatly into place. "Drugs," Heero said, half to himself. "Definitely drugs."

It changed little between Duo and Trowa, though neither made any effort, at that. It was sort of their understanding; their rivalry was part of the dynamic, and there was no reason messing with something that worked, for the most part. But Trowa never forgot that he wasn't the only one who wondered, sometimes, if leaving with only the barest kiss to a shoulder might someday not be enough.

 

 

 

Trowa had been halfway through his best attempt at a succinct, coherent update, when Wufei abruptly shoved him in the chest. Trowa's knees buckled. When his elbow hit the shuttle bay console on the way down, he nearly cried out, curling over himself as the pain flashed through every nerve. Wufei knelt down beside him, hand on Trowa's shoulder. 

"Barton," Wufei stated, and set a long-fingered, gun-calloused hand on Trowa's head, one of the few affectionate gestures he ever allowed himself. "Fever," he said, maybe to Trowa, maybe to one of his team. "Get Kessler up here. We'll need his help, and have Heero's adjunct check the rest of Barton's team. Find out if they were exposed to anything." 

Trowa got to his feet with Wufei's and Kessler's help, and wiped his forehead again. His shirt was drenched in sweat, but he wouldn't pass out. The thought stuck in his head was a simple, unhappy one: if only he had enough money to buy a vineyard.

"Better things to spend money on," came Wufei's amused tone. 

"No." Trowa licked his lips, wishing it weren't so hot in the shuttle bay. "I'd ship it all home ahead of me."

"Ah." Wufei's smirk appeared in Trowa's line of sight. "It might take three vineyards, Barton. How much do you have saved up?"

"Knew you'd help," Trowa said, teeth clenched at another wave of nausea-tinged pain. "Make sure he drinks it all..."

"I'm not taking on Quatre." Wufei stood. "I'm many things, but never suicidal." He nodded to someone Trowa couldn't see. "Get that in him, before we take off. Keep me posted."

"Get what?" Trowa struggled, then a needle-prick in his arm made him go still. He glared up at Wufei, who just stared back.

"Antibiotics."

Trowa relaxed, minutely.

"And a sedative."

"What--" Trowa tried to lunge, but his throat was too dry to yell, he couldn't get enough air, and the sudden ease in his muscles told him, faintly, that the shot had to have been one part antibiotics, and eighty parts sedative. He barely had a chance to complain and the floor was rushing back up to meet him.

The last thing he heard was Wufei's voice in his ear, soft enough that only Trowa would hear him. "Relax, Barton. Winner will never hear a word of this from me."

 

 

 

Trowa climbed into the van with his team, done with the last of the need-to-know details with his on-base peer. The man had relayed a baffling -- to the man, at least -- message of "death and justice out." It told Trowa several things. One, Duo and Wufei had gotten their teams out. Two, Duo had sent the message. Wufei would never refer to himself as justice, despite personifing it for the rest of them. Wufei would've sent a message more like, "noise and silence out." Though, Trowa  _had_  once caught Wufei laboriously writing the encoding for a message, in a mental state best described as damn near punch-happy. They'd completed the mission by the narrowest of margins, and Wufei's brain must've taken a hike from relief. Trowa had, fortunately, intercepted the relay message; decoded, to Trowa's shock and amusement, it read "eyes and ears are open, and mouth is about to get his ever-loving shit kicked in." 

THe'd always wondered how the Contact Agent would have translated that one into a message suitable for family ears. His own relay message, this time, had been less poetic: "three and one are free." Back at headquarters, Noin might not always grasp the nuances of their peculiar messages, but she at least could place them against expected locations and sources. She'd pass along an update to the Contact Agent, even if it took Heero's explanation to let her know that the "one" meant his loaner-member.

Sometimes, technology amazed Trowa, and sometimes, it bothered him that it could not be more complete. In this godforsaken empty country the sky stretched so far that once, as a younger man, he'd stood on the helm of his Gundam and stared open-mouthed at the wreath of stars over his head. In this lonely place, years later, he whispered a few words, accepted a clasp on his shoulder, and joined his silent, tired team. Soon, maybe even right now, that unnamed man at the isolated outpost would enter the algorithm, turning Trowa's whisper into numbers and random symbols littering the airwaves, to be downloaded into Noin's secure line. She'd decode and decide whether to relay again; if so, the Contact Agent would receive another message, and in turn call Quatre, one of many names on the list. And Quatre, Trowa hoped, could in turn decode it further to its bare bones, and hear Trowa's whisper, and the true meaning of every message Trowa would ever, could ever, send.

_Please, wait for me, I'll be there soon._

 

 

 

Every now and then Trowa was tempted to have a shirt made that said,  _phone widower_. Except for perhaps twice, three times, there hadn't been a point when Quatre's cellphone wasn't within reaching distance. Dinnertime, Quatre would at least politely thank the person and suggest a better time to speak, and he'd never interrupted sex to actually  _answer_  the phone, though he  _would_  check the caller ID. It had been a reluctant compromise, pleasing neither, after one more argument, that time after they'd tumbled off the sofa to engage in youthful antics against the coffee table -- and Quatre had nearly missed a hugely important conference call with three political leaders on two colonies, trying to talk them into granting a reconstruction project to WEI. Trowa had tried very hard to feel remorseful, but he couldn't help feeling angry and hurt that he'd be so easily pushed aside. It didn't make sense, he knew, it wasn't logical, but there it was. 

He did what he could, and when he couldn't, he escaped, knowing Quatre probably didn't notice his departure, might even display a flash of surprise when Trowa returned, that moment of, wait, did you go somewhere? Trowa had never been certain how he felt about that, but he decided on amusement as an acceptable default. If his lover tended to get wrapped up in something, then it was to be expected that he'd come back to reality with an abrupt, uneasy snap, blinking his eyes in confusion as the world returned to its noisy, demanding status around him.

And then there were the times that called for desperate measures -- well, Trowa amended, not desperate so much as simply distracting. Their second off-planet trip together, this time to L4 and the world Trowa had come to think of as Winnerdom. Quatre didn't need a bodyguard on Earth, where he could blend into the crowd as well as any other tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, college-aged young man. On L4, the people seemed bred with radar for Quatre, and although none would dream of hurting Quatre, they'd certainly claw over and through each other just to get a moment to talk to the man, shake his hand, ask him about jobs, about WEI's plans. It got to the point that Trowa wondered whether old man Winner had planned the final child as a walking, breathing, company diplomat; if he'd had twenty-nine sons, it would've been a daughter in Quatre's role, on the grounds of just plain standing out as one so different from the rest, those interchangeable, endless, sibling-faces. 

But that was just speculation, and the result was the discovery that Trowa would rather shave his legs with a tweezer and lemon juice than suffer another trip to L4. He'd never worked so hard, even in the first few years of covering Relena's security detail when Wufei switched over to Inspections work. Relena's fans were either up close and wanting to hug her -- or they were stationed on top of a building and thinking of entirely different kinds of touch. The L4 denizens were just... crazed, in Trowa's opinion. Yet if he so much as sprained someone's pinky trying to get them to back off, it meant a heated look from Quatre that promised a correcting comment, later. For some reason, Quatre seemed to think that eighty people, all defenseless on their own against someone of Trowa's skills -- or Quatre's, really -- would remain defenseless when it was eighty of them together. Mob mentality simply made no sense to Quatre.

Neither did a sister mentality, or for that matter, a day-off mentality. Trowa sighed and closed the office door behind him, watching Quatre behind the desk, staring intently at a computer screen. Quatre didn't even look up, just waved his fingers in an off-handed gesture; he probably thought Trowa was one of his sister's assistants, delivering more paperwork. The line was strong between Quatre's brows, his hair in his face, one hand caught at his tie, most likely about to tug it loose but halting halfway. Something on the computer must've caught Quatre's attention, and, too, likely he'd remembered he was still 'at work' and couldn't go about disheveled. Trowa frowned. He'd rather hoped for a permenantly disheveled look; that fit his expectations of a  _vacation_. This certainly didn't.

"This wasn't what I had in mind," he said, hiding his annoyed-amused flicker when Quatre jumped, blue eyes refocusing on Trowa, then darting back to the screen. Trowa fought to keep the scowl off his face. "This should be a break, not more of the same."

"I know," Quatre said, and gave Trowa a rueful smile. "I apologize, but it's just that... as long as I'm here..." He shrugged, wry, and clicked the keyboard a few times. "Hold on," he muttered, and it wasn't the computer he was speaking to. 

Trowa pursed his lips, and took stock of the clearly positioned security cameras in the corners. He'd noted the building's security when they'd arrived, making himself available for the guards, and taking advantage of the introductions to get a good look at the office setups. There should be one more camera, hidden, right... Trowa smiled to himself, not looking at the camera directly. The room's one blind spot was by the door, which made sense; with the door open, the hallway camera would catch the five-foot-square area. Trowa discreetly locked the door behind him, muffling the tumblers' click with his body. Quatre didn't notice, nor did he look up at the sound of a zipper coming undone.

"I had hopes we'd never leave the hotel room," he admitted, and didn't bother to hide the hitch in his voice as he shoved down slacks, then boxers, to bring out his half-hard cock. A few tugs, it grew harder, and he began to stroke, leaning back to tilt his hips forward, head resting on the door as he stared at Quatre, waiting for the moment of recognition. He unbuttoned his shirt with his free hand, letting it fall open while he stroked himself, long, with light fingers, a quick swirl of palm against his cock-head, the way Quatre always did it. 

"We can't lock ourselves in, and besides, tomorrow I wanted to go by the shopping district," Quatre said, not looking up. He was typing at the same time, gaze darting around the screen in way that told Trowa there were at least six open screens. That was Quatre's idea of taking it easy, on a computer system. On a bad day, he'd have thirty open, and still not get flustered between them. Uncanny, and exasperating when Trowa knew that attention needed to be on him. No, when  _Trowa_  needed that attention.

"We can shop at--" Trowa reached the last button, pulling his shirt free, and ran fingers up his chest to circle his nipple. He groaned, softly, right hand freezing around the base of his cock. He shivered, fingers relaxing, then started stroking again. So hard, precum leaking to be slathered down his cock, just enough sticky-good friction to make his knees go weak. He continued, "home, anyway."

"But I've not seen the place since the ribbon cutting. I know I promised, but there's plenty of--" Quatre's voice cut off, and Trowa chose that moment to tilt his head back further, eyes closing halfway as he sank two fingers into his mouth. One, two, three, and he almost smiled around the fingers, at Quatre's soft, bewildered, a little worried, a little annoyed, a whole lot of turned-on: "What are you  _doing_?"

Trowa let his fingers fall from his mouth with a wet sucking sound. "Taking a vacation." He circled his nipples with one finger, then put his saliva-slick hand to his cock, and began to stroke faster, hips kicking to shove himself through the damp, warm tunnel. He shoved his pants down further, cupping his balls, fingers rolling them together, then apart. The sensations flooded through his system, overlaid with Quatre's stunned expression. "Someone has to," Trowa said, but the complaint became a moan when he bent a little to reach behind his balls, pressing his finger against tender, sensitive skin, nerve endings sending firework-sparks through his muscles.

"Trowa," came a soft moan. "But the..." A nod of Quatre's head, just enough to indicate the cameras. 

"Blind spot." Trowa toed off one shoe, then the other, and let his slacks and boxers fall to the floor. He stepped out of them, and Quatre half came out of his seat, fingers gripping the desk edge. "You can stay there, though. Wouldn't want to interrupt your--" A hard squeeze, and he wished he'd not tossed his pants down so fast, didn't he have lube in there, somewhere? No matter, he'd bear it. He pressed harder, eyes closing, and forgot what he'd meant to say.

A second later, sounds came all at once: creak of a chair, rush of air, and a quiet moan, and suddenly he was pressed flat up against the door, Quatre's body covering his. Hand caught around his dick and held in place by Quatre's hips, the most Trowa could do was give a nudge with his fingers to Quatre's answering erection. Quatre's mouth tightened, one brow arching. 

"There'd better be a blind spot," Quatre almost snarled, "because I won't have anyone else seeing you like this." 

Trowa just smiled, arching his back enough to tilt his hips forward; it drove his knuckles a bit more into Quatre's groin. Then he pulled away, getting the barest room to twist his hand and cup Quatre instead, trying to massage and catch the zipper at the same time. Not the most graceful, but it took the edge off Quatre's jealousy, and the dangerous glare resolved into the beginnings of a wolfish bedroom smile. 

"The things you--" Quatre lunged forward right as Trowa got his hand down Quatre's pants, and for a few moments it was nothing but lips and tongue, teeth clacking but Quatre's fingers pressed into Trowa's hips, digging, pulling him forward to grind against Quatre's freed erection. Cock on cock, and Trowa could barely breathe, hips thrusting, mind gone except for the sensation of Quatre's skin, teeth, tongue, fingers, cock. Quatre pulled away, lips glistening, eyes wide in shock or delight. "No one makes me feel like this."

"Unh," Trowa managed to say, satisfied. He brought up a leg, catching Quatre around the hips to pull him close, and remembered words. "Show me." Slim fingers found the line between his ass, teasing over the skin, and Trowa shivered, suddenly unable to do anything but cling to Quatre, one hand fisting in Quatre's shirt, the other tight around his cock, barely moving except for the shudders of Quatre's hips, pushing against Trowa's palm. Quatre grunted, stretching to reach, and a finger dug in -- Trowa instinctively angled to push down, spine curling. It sent his head thumping against the door, but he had some part of Quatre inside him, and he wanted more, craved more. Quatre swallowed his moan, pulled his hand away, then prodded at Trowa's leg.

"Move, just a second," Quatre said, and raised Trowa's leg higher, running light fingertips down the underside of the thigh, and back up again. A rattle of keys, loose change, and then a rip of paper-plastic. Trowa focused long enough to brush his lips over Quatre's cheek, to his ear, to suck at an earlobe. Quatre groaned, muttered something, and then both hands were busy under Trowa's leg, cuffs brushing his skin. Quatre sighed, then, hands making quick work of his preparation, and then his angled his head to catch Trowa's mouth, tongue stabbing into Trowa at the same instant as two fingers shoved hard into Trowa's ass.

Trowa barely caught the sharp cry, body tilting, held in place by Quatre's weight. He shuddered around the invasion, biting his lip and barely recognizing Quatre's tongue was running back and forth across the lip, pushing at his mouth. He gasped, and Quatre took advantage of his, kissing him harder, pushing past his defenses even as his fingers pried Trowa open, insisted, persistent, rough callouses catching on the tender skin but Trowa ached for that delicious friction. The stabbing pain faded into a blissful mix of faint pain and growing pleasure, a wet fullness moving into him in time with Quatre's cock rubbing along his belly, side-by-side with his own, caught between them. 

"You feel, fuck," Quatre gasped, composure gone. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, a smear of wet across his mouth and cheek, utterly disheveled despite his tie still perfect, shirt hardly wrinkled except where he'd rolled up the sleeves, and where the starched cotton crumpled between their bodies. Trowa wanted it gone but his body obeyed no command except the one urging him to set his balance against the door and bring his other leg up. As always, Quatre's eyes widened, then narrowed, grin distinctly wolfish now, as Trowa folded up his right leg, agilely maneuvering it up free of Quatre's supporting arms on his ass -- and then unfolded the leg over Quatre's shoulder, leaving him hung, crushed between the door and Quatre, and his lover was never one to hesitate at an opening. Fingers jerked free and then a cock rammed home into Trowa, shirt sliding against the door to catch on sweat-soaked skin as he was shoved upwards an inch, two, three, by Quatre staking ground beneath them, legs planted wide.

Trowa instinctively reached upward, groping for the doorframe with one hand, and caught it with his fingertips. His other hand gripped Quatre by the back of his neck; he'd reach for a kiss but that balance was precarious. All he could do was hang, open-mouthed, impaled, delightfully pinioned, a sweetly-desired pain striking his core with each jolt of Quatre's hips against him, balls slapping his ass at the pinnacle, Quatre's cock driving deeper and deeper until Trowa's eyes rolled back in his head. He no longer registered any sounds, except to keep them as soft as he could, stifling -- if barely -- a keening sound as the pleasure swirled through his body, every muscle tensing. 

"Fuck, oh, fuck," Quatre repeated, head falling back. His shoulder muscles bunched beneath Trowa's knee. His fingers clawed at Trowa's ass, holding him spread, clawing skin until two fingers met and pressed at the perimeter of the muscle-ring, prying Trowa open even further. Trowa rode through the moment of disorientation at the additional stretch, inner muscles twinging, welcoming the relief of the fingers holding him open -- just that last bit that Quatre's cock could finally, comfortably, fully, fit. 

The vestiges of pain receded, pleasure cresting across Trowa's skin with each slide home of Quatre's cock. The force pushed Trowa up the door just a bit, with the drive into him, then let him down in a smooth pulling away. Each time he expected longer, but Quatre was no more than halfway out before he rammed back up again. A methodical rhythm, syncopated against Trowa's heartbeat, sudden-hard and soothing-slow. Quatre's whispers were the harmony, matched by Trowa's inarticulate cries. Fire licked through every nerve, rippling at the outer edges of orgasm, leaving him trembling and in agony for the completion. 

"God, I want--" Quatre chanted, hoarse. "Inside you, it's--" His eyes focused, brilliantly blue and unbearably so, catching Trowa and skewering him to the wall as forcefully as any cock or fingers or tongue. For that single moment, Quatre saw Trowa, and only Trowa, and that look alone was enough to have Trowa half-glad of the weight upon him, half in terror, unable to flee and not sure whether he really wanted to, and maybe Quatre understood because that look always had a slight curl of sad smile. It felt, to Trowa, sometimes... as though in that single heartbeat, poised on the edge of explosion, that Quatre could  _see_  him, into him, through layers of flesh and bone and years of dirt and injury and fear and loneliness to the  _real_  Trowa, had taken aim, and with one final strike would decimate Trowa completely. 

He longed for it, ached for it, needed that revelation, even as it terrified him, so he closed his eyes, turning his head away, and tensed every muscle, fighting to tighten himself. Whether to shut Quatre out or to hold him securely within and never let go, he didn't know, didn't want to consider. It was enough to hear Quatre's choked moan drawing out into a gasp, feel Quatre's body freeze against him, cock throbbing in Trowa's ass. Hot breath beat on Trowa's skin. Quatre's body shivered, lurching into Trowa awkwardly, the orgasm's last shudders. 

Only then did Trowa slant his gaze to Quatre's face. His lover's eyes closed, heavy-lidded; his body relaxed, mouth gentling, brow smoothing, the release peeling away all that hid Quatre. It was Trowa's one wish, to have Quatre's eyes open so he could see, too, into his lover in return. Any thoughts on that were swept away in the next breath, body's awareness returning to the forefront, cock and ass and tongue and hips and fingers and legs and gut all throbbing uselessly, helplessly, demanding release.

Quatre leaned forward, risking their balance to catch the corner of Trowa's mouth with a sloppy kiss, and then situated himself, regaining his hold. His cock remained deep in Trowa's ass; he'd leave it there as long as he could, he always did, but doubly so when Trowa had so thoroughly provoked Quatre's most significant kink. Even though it was only Trowa's own hand, it was almost as if Quatre were driven to erase the history of any touch on Trowa's body other than Quatre's. Trowa managed a strained smile, groaning against the sweet shift and slide of Quatre's cock nestled within him, one hand cradling his ass, the other slipping between them to grasp Trowa's cock. He shivered, eyes opening a slit to see Quatre's grin, pleased, sated, victorious, even.

"Wanna see you," Quatre coaxed, "wanna be in you forever, see you..." His thumb caught the underside of Trowa's cock, pulling at the skin, fingers dancing over the cock-head to spread the weeping precum and then another strong, hard stroke, knuckles ramming into Trowa's tensed stomach muscles. "Come on, come on, feel you..."

He couldn't resist any longer, not with that intensity on him, inside him, wrapped around him. With a groan, Trowa gave way, tipping himself purposefully over into orgasm. He spasmed, for a split-second afraid he'd lost his hold on the doorframe and Quatre, that they'd tumbled down and would fall forever, but awareness blew away as white-cold pleasure screamed through his body from his center to his outermost edge. His heart hammered, riding the pleasure; his lungs caught and released, turning his gasping sob into a hiccuped sound of relief. He gripped Quatre's arm, half-clinging, legs shaking while the aftershocks rode his system. It all left him breathless, and naked in a way that had nothing to do with wearing only a shirt while held up against an office door by Quatre's weight and strength alone. 

Trowa came to, to see Quatre licking a finger, before smearing his hand over Trowa's chest; an awkward proposition in that position, but the brush of finger on nipple, the light scratch of a fingernail, and Trowa arched again. The touch made a shadowy echo of his orgasm wash over him again, leaving him poised, back arched just so for Quatre to pump his hips a few more times. The motion had Trowa biting his lip and wishing he had leverage, when all he could do was shake uncontrollably, trapped between Quatre's cock rubbing against so many nerve endings, and the reintroduced pain-twinge of muscles stretched far too much, too fast, to accomodate something of Quatre's size. 

The main act ended, as it often did, with Quatre's rueful chuckle that became a soft moan -- tinged with longing or regret, it seemed, maybe -- as Quatre pulled out. Trowa let Quatre guide his left leg down to the floor, but kept his other leg over Quatre's shoulder, holding him fully open while Quatre pressed against him, fingers pushing in deep, massaging the worn muscle ring, prodding into him, prompting more of the shadow-orgasms to run through Trowa's body, even as his mouth sucked on Trowa's, teasing his tongue, licking along his teeth, lips mashed and bruised, so wet and warm. 

Five minutes, ten minutes, Trowa never knew, he couldn't track heartbeats with Quatre's tongue in his mouth and little pearl buttons teasing his skin and starched cotton abrading his nipples while Quatre coaxed another aftershock from his body, then a second, then a third, until Trowa longed to beg for mercy, to regain his sense for enough time to demand Quatre explain. Why must he do that, why did he do that, what made him want to do that, when it was only Trowa's pleasure and not shared, and the returning unease pushed coherent, if unwanted, thoughts back into Trowa's head. He made a rough attempt at Quatre's chest, and the fingers moved from his ass, quicker than he could see, to catch him. Quatre moved his hand away, kissed the palm, kissed him again, and then gently let Trowa's other leg come down, steadying them both against the sudden urge to drop to the floor.

"Vacation," Quatre whispered. "If I'd realized that's what you meant by the word, I assure you, my plans would've been different." His breath eased over Trowa's skin, kissing a shoulder lightly, running his tongue up Trowa's neck -- and all the while his nimble fingers buttoned Trowa's shirt back up. 

The best Trowa could manage was a smirk, both at Quatre's words and at the ever-present post-sex haze. It might've been more enjoyable, he considerd, if only Quatre didn't always seem so energized by sex. Trowa was ready to lie down and nap for at least an hour. Rest, and regain the energy he'd lost -- or given away -- before he could face the outside world, shields once again intact. He had no idea what had prompted him to do it in an office. He had a vague recollection of planning to tease Quatre and lure him back to the hotel, but he'd gotten carried away, and now Quatre was looking for something to clean them both off. Trowa solved that by sliding down to a heap on the floor and using his boxers. Unfortunately, sitting on the floor in a tangle of limbs -- even if all his own -- made putting his slacks on rather difficult. 

Quatre's smiled was both amused and tender, assisting Trowa into the slacks. He tossed the stained boxers over to the desk. "I'll never see how you can go without," he commented, and gave Trowa a hand up. 

"Did it for long enough." Trowa swayed, caught a chaste kiss. "We're out of the blind-spot," he warned, in Quatre's ear.

"That's okay. I don't mind prying eyes for what's next." Quatre's laugh was a gentle, teasing thing, and he guided Trowa backwards until Trowa's knees hit the sofa. Pushed down, Trowa sat, and Quatre kept pushing until Trowa half-lay across the cushions, head in the crook between sofa-arm and back. "You sleep for a bit, and then we'll go for dinner."

"Dinner," Trowa mumbled, lids heavy. "But we're... what time is..." The room was warm, strange; it had felt cool when he'd first walked in. He hoped he'd not cracked the doorframe's moulding. Where were his boxers? Quatre's fingers smoothed across his shirt, circled a nipple through fabric, and Trowa instinctively relaxed, eyes closing again despite words still forcing themselves out. "Are you gonna..."

"Shhh, I've got just a bit of work, then we can go," Quatre assured him. A quick kiss on Trowa's cheek, and then footsteps audible enough on muffling carpet to tell Trowa that Quatre had done it on purpose. A clatter of the laptop keyboard, creak of desk chair, the click of the briefcase opening and shutting, all minute signals that Quatre was nearby, that Trowa could sleep in a strange environment.

Trowa contemplated finding enough energy to rearrange himself so he could sleep on his preferred left side without having to face the sofa-back to do it. But the haze won out, so he rolled onto his side, cheek against the sofa-arm, and tried to ignore the wish to have Quatre be as sleepy-sated, to sleep beside him, share that glowing warmth... just once. He wanted Quatre to stay, to never close his eyes again, to be there for Trowa to fall into him and remain there. 

And in this groggy euphoric state, if somewere were ever to ask, in this place Trowa might keep his refuge in Quatre as a means to answer without fear, to finally confess. He could mark his life as truly beginning at fifteen, upon his first sight of Quatre and sensing only that this man could, would, change Trowa's life. All his growing for the years since had been a struggle to accept, or deny, that one person could have such power over him. Stay or go, it never changed that all he was, he was for Quatre, and all he had, he'd give to Quatre, and all he'd ever be, he'd be only with Quatre. 

Someone had joked once, intending cruelty, that Trowa was no more than a former mercenary; with so little to offer, his world must necessarily revolve around Quatre, and any glory be only a reflected grandeur. It was only between the moments after gaining -- and losing -- the reminder of his place within Quatre, and the moments before sinking into sleep -- that Trowa dared admit the truth.

His world didn't revolve around Quatre. His world  _was_  Quatre. 


End file.
